


If I Can Live Through This

by Burning_Up_A_Sun



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 25 Days of Harry and Draco, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Banter, Draco is a financial advisor, Explicit Sexual Content, Harry is secluded, M/M, Maybe he's a lawyer, go with it, it's 2018, they fight a lot of course
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2019-03-24
Packaged: 2019-09-05 03:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 28,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16803049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Burning_Up_A_Sun/pseuds/Burning_Up_A_Sun
Summary: Harry Potter lives a life of solitude that's ruled by his routines, but ex-girlfriend Ginny Weasley knows what he needs to do: Buy the Chudley Cannons and bring them (back?) to glory.This is set in 2018, and Harry and Draco are both 29.Brought to you by this photo prompt:





	1. Fancy Meeting You Here

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is part of the [25 Days of Draco & Harry](https://slythindor100.livejournal.com/) hosted over at Slythindor on LJ. 
> 
> This fic will be 25(ish) chapters that will run until Christmas Day (ish). This is my 4th year with this fest, and while I'm pretty sure I know where it's going, sometimes the guys change their minds. 
> 
> I promise plenty of Drarry banter, snarky comments and arguments, and soon enough we'll earn the **explicit** rating. Oh! and as always, a happy ending.
> 
> Ten Thousand hugs to [Crowgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl) and [FleurySexual](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FleurySexual) for making this so much better!

“Merlin, Harry. I can’t believe I ran into you here!”

A tug on his elbow pulled Harry back and into a warm hug. If he hadn’t recognized her voice, he would’ve known Ginny by the scent that was always hers—cool, crisp air; grass freshly mown for the last time this season; and just a hint of _Fleetwood’s_ broom handle polish.

“It’s not really a surprise,” Harry said into Ginny’s shoulder. He hugged her and then struggled free. “I check the Owl Post Office every afternoon at 1.”

Harry stepped back and pushed his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. Ginny looked every inch the professional athlete. Tall, slender, but Harry had felt the muscles in her grasp. There was a reason she’d gone first in her draft year, and the records she set for the Holyhead Harpies would be hard for anyone to break.

And then a year ago, for no logical reason, the Harpies traded her to Puddlemere, who in turn (at the end of last season) traded her and Blaise Zabini in a package deal to the Chudley Cannons for the first-round draft picks for the next five years. Ginny was still amazing, but like the editorial in the _The Wizard Sporting News_ said, “A gem in a pile of shit is still a gem, only now it’s covered in shit.”

Not that Harry studied the British and Irish Quidditch League in _The Wizard Sporting News_ every day during the season. Over his morning coffee at the little Muggle coffee house in Islington, where they called him Harry and thought his scar was cool, and he was just the bloke who ordered scrambled eggs on toast and a bowl of porridge with bananas and chocolate chips (hold the bananas). He carried his copy of _The WSN_ folded and tucked under his arm so the title was hidden and performed a discreet spell so the people in the photographs didn’t move.

 _If_ he’d gone there every day for breakfast.

Okay, he did. So what?

After the chaos of his time in Hogwarts, the uncertainty of what any day would bring, and living with the knowledge that there might not be a tomorrow, Harry Potter liked routine. He had the same breakfast at the same coffee house at 9 am every day (except Sunday when they opened at 10, but he’d never seriously considered changing the other days to 10. Not _really._ Much.) And he checked his mailbox at the Owl Post Office at one o’clock.

Whatever.

“For real? I didn’t—” Ginny’s face was bright as she pretended to be surprised. But Harry knew her bullshit, knew she needed something.

“Ginny.” Harry crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. “I’ve checked my mail at 1:00 for years. During most of which we were dating. What do you want?”

She deflated a little, slumped her shoulders and said, “Look. I have a proposition, and—hear me out. Can we go somewhere and sit? Just give me five minutes. Maybe ten. And just--listen?” 

Merlin help him, he had no idea why he’d agree. He already knew it was going to be bad. Bad with a capital B. And he was going to say yes to whatever she asked because that’s just what he did.

“Fine, but we’re going to the Leaky, and you’re buying lunch,” Harry grumbled, shaking his head. Because he knew that, halfway through lunch, she’d remember an interview that she had to give, and she’d Floo off to Scotland, or Bulgaria, or Norway or some other exotic place.

“Brilliant. You’re going to love this!” Ginny grinned, and for a sliver of a second, Harry felt his heart warm, plonk out one extra beat in tepid interest. Ginny turned toward the Leaky, her hair catching the noon sun’s rays, and it reminded Harry of bonfires at the Burrow and kissing her when no one was watching.

It’s not like Harry envied her life. Jumping from city to city, living out of a suitcase, being the center of attention with people studying every move you make, detailing who you’re dating and what you’re doing.

He’d hated that. People had poked into his privacy. He’d been in the spotlight all the time.

“Yeah,” he said out loud in response to no one as he followed Ginny up Diagon Alley toward the Leaky. “That was hell.”

Harry nodded resolutely to punctuate his words.

And didn’t feel wistful at all.

Much.


	2. She Loves Me Like a Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny, ever so kindly, explains to Harry why he needs to shake his life up. And by KINDLY, read: blunt, in the way that only exes or siblings are. 
> 
> TW: talk of past infidelity, discussion of therapy
> 
> Brought to you by this prompt: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *this chapter takes a poke at me. I live and die by my routines. When I shower, I do it in the same order every time, or I literally have no idea if I've washed something. I come to McDonald's every morning to write. If I don't get my booth, I--I--idek what to do. I'm in my bed right after dinner (ok, I eat dinner in my bed) to listen to hockey or baseball. 
> 
> If this chapter is you too, unite with me and Harry.

“How’s your knee?”

Harry glared at Ginny, wishing that he’d bothered inventing a spell for a death-ray glare. Or a debilitating glare. Or even a mildly disconcerting glare. She always brought up his fucked-up knee, like it had changed the course of his life or something. He flexed his left knee and then cursed himself for doing it. The damn thing didn’t hurt ‘til someone brought the subject up.

“It’s fine, Gin.” 

_It wasn’t fine, Gin._

Ginny swirled the hot cocoa in her mug and then fished out the marshmallow with her spoon. He assumed she was trying to find the right words for whatever she wanted to say. Harry waited, nursing his own cocoa. She’d talk when she was ready, and he knew from experience that rushing her wouldn't do anything. Which was fine, because a group of uni students had just pushed through the front door, laughing and chatting loudly as they shook snowflakes from their bobble hats and scarves.

“It’s just that, before you blew your knee out, you had all these plans. You had the invite to try out for Puddlemere United. Kingsley was practically begging you to join the Aurors. Fuck, McGonagall even offered you the Defense Against the Dark Arts job.”

“What’s your point, Ginny?”

 _Maybe it should have been a “floor open up and swallow me” spell,”_ Harry thought, gripping his mug. _“Maybe—”_ he looked over his shoulder to Hannah Abbott working behind the bar, _“I could Accio some rum. It would definitely help with this conversation.”_

“I don’t want to be mean, but look, Harry. You’ve turned into some old man. A 29-year-old shouldn’t have—routines!” Ginny waved her hand at him, as if he didn’t know she was talking about him. “Like, sure. You’re getting up to go to work and grab a coffee at the same place, or you have lunch with the same people every day. That’s normal. But you don’t even have a job. You sit around all day, waiting for the next appointment on your list so you can check it off.”

Harry’s anger spiked before he could tamp it down. “Christ, Ginny. If this is you _not_ being mean—” He remembered his lesson. He inhaled and blew it out slowly and reminded himself that he was in charge of his emotions now. Harry looked away from her, not wanting to show he was angry because her words hurt. Or how true her words were.

Ginny laughed as if she were enjoying his discomfort. “Do you go to bed at half seven at night? Can you even stay up to some grown-up time like 10?”

Harry struggled to keep his face expressionless, because he did _not_ want her to know he’d fallen asleep on the old, lumpy couch at 8 last night and hadn’t woken up til that morning. The eggs and porridge lay heavy in his stomach, or maybe it was the weight of Ginny’s words settling in.

 _I’m working to overcome my anxiety, but I am a work in progress, and that is alright,_ he reminded himself. He didn’t have to accept her words or her mean spirited teasing any more.

Ginny switched chairs, moving to the one next to him. She wrapped her arm around his shoulders in a half hug. The teasing was gone, replaced by shared pain. “Look, Harry. Not one of those people who died at Hogwarts would want you to live like this, honey. Not one of them would blame you for their death. Not one of _us_ blame you.” Her voice cracked as she spoke. She took his hand in hers and squeezed it. 

_No. Just--no. Who the fuck did she think she was?_ Harry pulled his hand away, scraped his chair away from hers. He didn’t need her goddamn sanctimonious fake concern. “Fuck you, Ginevra. Don’t psychoanalyze me. I already have a therapist.”

He watched her expression change from concerned to outright angry. She was angry because he didn’t want her pity? That was too rich. "You fucking lost any right to comment on my life when you walked out.”

Ginny leaned back in her chair, her arms crossed over her chest and her legs spread out under the table. She smirked. “Oh, do you really wanna do that?”

Harry dared her, but it wouldn’t be a surprise. He knew exactly what she was going to say. And she was right. 

“Hell yeah, I walked out. After the picture of you with your hand down some Muggle bloke’s pants was all over the _Prophet._ Figured we didn’t have much of a future after that.”

_Christ._

“Do you want me to say I’m sorry? Again? You were no angel, either. I knew you were fucking Zabini. I smelled him on you,” Harry said through gritted teeth. The first time Ginny had introduced Harry to her friend Blaise at a Puddlemere party, Blaise leaned in to hug ‘his best mate’s husband.’ 

Zabini’s cologne overwhelmed Harry, and he held himself back with every bit of emotional strength he had; otherwise, he would have punched Zabini, laid him out cold. There’d been no mistaking the scent. He’d smelled it on Ginny’s neck before she’d pulled away instead of kissing him. On her hair when he’d tried to hold her.

Ginny laughed, but there was no warmth behind it. “At least I wasn’t pretending to be straight.”  
Fuck it. Fuck everything he knew about staying calm, about making wise choices, using his words instead of his emotions. “Oh no. No you don’t.” 

Harry forced his chair away from the table. He stood, leaning threateningly close to her. He pulled the collar of his jumper away, exposing his neck, pointing at the vein that throbbed with anger. “Just ask for the jugular next time. It’ll be easier.” 

Ginny lurched forward to grab his wrist. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, holding onto him before he could bolt, disappear into the crowd, back to the comfort of Grimmauld Place, to his habits that had worn grooves in his life.

Ginny. 

It was easy to remember the good times at the beginning, when she was heat and desire and everything that Harry wanted. She was so beautiful. The freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks. Her smile, always brilliant, but even more when she was breaking someone’s rules. How she could make him laugh when he was furious or one word away from sobbing. 

And the amazing thing was that she wanted him. He was nothing. Just Harry, famous for something he hadn’t even done. Being with her had been passionate and electrifying, but it had also been easy, comfortable, like slipping on his Hogwarts robes after a long summer with the Dursleys. 

He had to consciously remember that they’d also been a hot fucking mess. Ginny escalating, always escalating, trying to reach him someway. And Harry was absent even when they were together, withdrawing until there was nowhere further to go. He acted the victim instead of addressing their issues like an adult. It took months, travelling the US alone to realize what he wanted. 

And Ginny, intelligent, kind, lovely Ginny, wasn’t it.

The anger drained out of Harry, left him weary and unwilling to fall into old patterns that he’d fought too hard to break. He righted his overturned chair and sat down. “Yes, I did try to convince myself I was straight, but I’m not. And I’m sorry for making you part of that. It’s one of the issues we’re working on it in therapy. But that’s not what you wanted to talk about.”

“Nope. You’re not changing the subject,” Ginny said softly. She nudged her chair closer to Harry’s. “You have a Mind Healer?”

“No. She’s called a psychologist.” This was the first time he’d told anyone, and once he’d said it, he felt the weight of the secret disappear. “Beatrix is a Squib. Mostly she sees Muggles, but occasionally she sees wizards. She knows about the War and the deaths. And me.”  
Ginny nodded. “And she’s helping?”

How could he explain that it was the hardest fucking work he’d ever done? Harder than Potions with Snape, or Quidditch training, or staying alive in the Forest of Dean. That some days, after the 45-minute session, he’d go home and pass out, exhausted and shattered, and pray sleep would speed the healing process. 

“It’s slow.” Harry made a conscious effort to smile, because yeah. It was helping, but it was at the rate a glacier moves. “One thing I’m working on is being open to new things. The other night, I went with Ron and Hermione to a karaoke bar.”

Which he vowed he'd never, ever talk about. Ever.

“I’m really happy for you, Harry. I really am. And I’m sorry for ambushing you.” Ginny took a deep breath before pulling a wad of folded papers from the back pocket of her jeans. Bright orange--no mistaking they were from the Cannons. “I have a proposition. Hear me out.”

_Oh, shit._

“The owner of the Cannons has to go, and you need to buy them.”


	3. The Chudley What Now?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny takes Harry to meet the quirky owner of the Chudley Cannons, who has a passion--it's just not the Cannons. Luckily, he's hired a financial adviser.
> 
> Brought to you marginally by this prompt: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like a huge ton of thanks to FleurySexual and Crowgirl42 for pointing out when things are crap. All remaining crud is my fault. lolol.
> 
> Also, please take some time to go over to [Slythindor's 25 Days of Draco & Harry](https://slythindor100.livejournal.com/) and check it out.

They landed with a clean thud in what was obviously intended to be a changing room, but it was the most appalling one Harry had ever seen.

“Merlin fuck, Ginny. It’s freezing in here.” Harry withdrew his arm from Ginny’s. Her side-along apparation was supposed to have landed them outside Dimplethwait’s office, not in this hole.

Professional athletes should have certain luxuries in their home-away-from-home, but this changing room was _not_ one of them. Orange cinder block walls desperately needed paint and decorations for team pride. The orange rug was worn down to the grey cement in places. Half of the lockers were unusable with the wooden seats broken or hooks missing. Harry couldn’t imagine what fresh hell the trainers’ rooms looked like. Or maybe out-dated, old and moldy hell.

But the worst offense was the temperature. Harry zipped his jacket the rest of the way and shoved his hands into the pockets. It had to be easily 10-15 degrees colder than it should be, if not for the players then to keep the equipment useable. Brooms at this temperature would be nasty and unresponsive, and the players would spend more time forcing them to move faster than actually playing Quidditch.

“This is bullshit, Ginny. It’s not right.” Between the cold and the jarring color, Harry’s head ached. And he’d only been in here a few minutes.

Ginny dragged Harry out of the changing room, but not before he took one last look around. “That’s—that’s fucked up. Like, how can you even concentrate on the game?” 

They walked out of the changing room, through the stadium to the outside. The public areas of the stadium were just as shabby. It desperately needed paint and repair. “Someone should just tear this shithole down and start over,” Harry said. “I think that would be easier than trying to fix it up.”

Outside the stadium, the ticket booths were in worse shape, if that were even possible. And _they_ were bright orange, too. “Like, I get team spirit, but did someone get a bargain on this paint? It’s hellacious,” Harry said, his anger rising on behalf of the Cannons, and he’d never met any of them besides Ginny and Blaise. “Someone needs to paint this shit a normal color. Like—beige or white or something neutral.”

Ginny didn’t respond to Harry’s comment. She led him across the field into the office building, which was in slightly better shape than the changing room, except for the temperature. If the changing room had been frigid, the administration building was sweltering.

“Whoever runs this team has some fucked-up ideas,” Harry said as he gaped at the foyer. Potted orchids cluttered the receptionist’s desk and lined the baseboards around the room. The scent was overwhelming—cloying and too sweet, and between that and the suffocating heat, Harry had trouble breathing. He stripped off his winter jacket and seriously considered removing his button-down shirt, too, as he felt sweat bead on his forehead and under his arms.

An evergreen tree had been shoved into a corner of the office, the only nod to the Christmas season. The fairy lights were off, but when Harry looked closer he realized thee tree had no lights, and the sparse decorations were red sequined hearts that looked tawdry and cheap compared to the orchids.

Ginny chatted with the security wizard a moment, and with his permission, she led Harry down the damp hallways toward the owner’s office. “Wait,” was all she said as she wiped the perspiration from her forehead. “You’ll enjoy Mr. Dimplethwait.”

His secretary, probably younger than Harry or Ginny, was dressed in summer robes. An oscillating fan faced her desk, blowing her hair away from her face. “Sorry about the temperature,” she whispered, offering them tissues. Harry took one to wipe his face, but Ginny waved them off. “Even cooling charms don’t work. I rigged this Muggle device to work off magic. It helps some.”

Like the foyer, every useable space was taken up by pots growing orchids. “This isn’t really—livable, is it? This is bonkers,” Harry said, grabbing another tissue. The first one was soaked through.

A silver stingray Patronus swam through the closed door. “Jasmine, please send Mr. Potter in.”

Jasmine nodded as the Patronus dissolved. She held the box of tissues toward Harry. “He prefers people not to perspire when they’re talking to him.” Careful not to disturb her makeup, Jasmine blotted her face with a tissue before asking Harry to follow her.

Harry looked back at Ginny, who was still in front of the desk. “Aren’t you—”

“I’m going to hang in the trainers’ room,” she said, waving Harry on. “Find me when you’re done.”

Harry raised an eyebrow, trying to ask what he was going to encounter, but Ginny smiled and shook her head. He followed Jasmine into Mr. Dimplethwait’s office wondering how in Merlin’s name he was going to not sweat in this sauna.

“Mr. Potter. Welcome, welcome.” Mr. Dimplethwait stood behind his desk which was packed with potted orchids. “Thank you for taking time from your busy schedule to talk to me.” He smiled wide, and it seemed genuine. Kindly. With his close-cut white hair and his little paunch, he reminded Harry of someone’s granddad. “Please. Have a seat.”

Harry relaxed and tried not to sweat. It was the least he could do.

Mr. Dimplethwait pointed across from his desk; it took Harry several moments to realize that the indoor planter was actually a bench seat, blanketed in even more potted orchids.

“Forgive me. Forgive me,” Mr. Dimplethwait laughed, and by hand, he moved the pots to the wide windowsill, whispering to each as he set them down. “Orchids are my passion.”

Harry tried to make himself comfortable on the hard bench, the straight rails pressing into his back. He cursed himself for not researching Augustus Dimplethwaite; the name sounded familiar, but was that just because he owned the Cannons? “Is the orchid market hot right now?” he asked, hoping that was a good conversation starter.

“Excellent pun, my boy! Once, when I was in the Amazon,” Mr. Dimplethwait sat back behind his desk, and with a hearty laugh, he was off, telling story after story, discussing his procurement of rare bulbs, his newest growing techniques, and eventually ending with his belief that the Cannons should be renamed the Moth Orchids and be outfitted in uniforms that were, well, orchid.

“I had no idea that orchids were so profitable,” Harry said, praying his comment wouldn’t launch another monologue about plants. He surreptitiously blotted the sweat from his face before shoving the tissue back into his trouser pocket.

“No, no. Goodness, no. They’re my _passion,_ as I said.” Mr. Dimplethwait pushed away from the desk and opened a cabinet in the corner of the room. It gave Harry a chance to study him—robes that were old-fashioned but well cared for, slippers that were scuffed and worn.

_He must spend all his money on orchids, because he isn’t spending it on clothes or the team._

“ _This_ is my business. Been in my family for generations. Once, my great-great grandfather—” He held up a familiar clear glass bottle and told a story about how his family had cornered the market.

**Dimplethwait’s Eye of Newt. _You can see the difference!_**

_Of course,_ Harry thought, hiding his repulsion. He’d probably used them hundreds of times in Potions. _What kind of man pops eyes out of newts?!_

Mr. Dimplethwait handed Harry the bottle before sitting on the corner of his desk. “Here you go. For your potions supply at home.”

Harry took the bottle with the best smile he could manage, which wasn’t much because eyes of newt were slimy and disembodied and always staring and—

“—here to talk about our Cannons!”

“Ginny said something about—”

“Yes, yes.” Mr. Dimplethwait frowned and shook his head. “My players are opposed to the proposed name change. Seem to think the Moth Orchids is a terrible name. Once, several months ago, I suggested the change and Mr. Zabini said—” 

Harry interrupted Dimplethwait before he could launch into yet another long-winded anecdote. “I’m sorry, I—Are you—You’re not serious. The Cannons are a legacy,” Harry sputtered, leaning forward in his chair. “The name. The fluorescent orange. You can’t change.”

Mr. Dimplethwait shrugged his shoulders and reached for a folder on his desk, careful not to nudge any of the blooms. “Staying static is bad for business, and business is bad.” He handed the paperwork to Harry. “It’s costing a fortune to run this, and the players insist on higher salaries, better brooms, newer uniforms. When I offered a change, they not so politely declined.”

Sweet, quirky granddad was gone, replaced by the sharp businessman who’d been camouflaged, hiding beneath, ready to sting. Dimplethwait may consider orchids his passion, but Harry had no doubt his real passion was money. Acquiring it. Hoarding it. And yes, spending it on growing orchids.

Because he certainly wasn’t putting any into the Cannons. Harry knew fuck all about reading business ledgers, but he definitely understood the negative signs. The records spanned 1998-2018, and in that time, not once had the Cannons turned a profit. Not a yearly profit, not a monthly profit. Hell, they hadn’t even made money at the home game with Puddlemere, their biggest rival. And that was just in terms of the stadium and upkeep costs.

It didn’t even touch salaries. Players. Trainers. Maintenance. Administration.

This was a sin. Harry’s anger rose, hot fierce on behalf of the Cannons’ employees. Why would he own a Quidditch team and let it rot like this? Didn’t Dimplethwait know what an honor it was, how lucky he was, to own the Cannons?

“You’ve lost money every year for the past 20 years?” Harry asked, trying to keep the disbelief from his voice. He needed to make sure he wasn’t misunderstanding the papers. “How is that possible? It’s—it’s Quidditch!”

Dimplethwait shook his head and shrugged again, as if things were beyond his control. “I know. I know. I’ve brought in a specialist to help, and we’ve cut corners everywhere we could.”

Cut _corners??_ How could he spend less? This went beyond cost savings. This was dangerous for the fans, for the staff, and absolutely for the athletes. “How much?”

Dimplethwait looked at Harry in confusion. Or was that an act, too?

“You shouldn’t be allowed to own—you’ve run this into the ground.” Harry stood and stepped forward until he was in Dimplethwait’s space. A drop of Harry’s sweat fell onto Dimplethwait’s cotton dress shirt, and Harry took a perverse pleasure as Dimplethwait’s face paled. “How much do you want for the Cannons?”

“Don’t answer that, Augustus,” a voice said from the doorway. “Potter, step away.”

The corner-cutting, cost specialist. 

Of course.

It could only be Draco Malfoy.


	4. Wrap It Up, I'll Take It.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco grabbed Harry by the shoulders and held him in place. “Do you even have 20 million Galleons?” he hissed.
> 
> Brought to you by this prompt: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um, so, I know like nothing about contracts and breach of contract. Or if that's even a UK term. so my apologies. *waves hand over contracts* Also, what would a Quidditch team sell for? 20m G seems too little, given that the Vegas Golden Nights paid $600+ million to join the NHL. but you know *waves hand over money amounts*
> 
> also, the title of the chapter comes from this [Fabulous Thunderbirds](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51270i8F3mU) song. 
> 
> From here on in, kids, we're unbeta'd. Enjoy my wild mind.

“Stand down, Potter,” Draco Malfoy said. “And don’t ask my client again. If he chooses to set a price for the Cannons, I will contact you.”

As Malfoy strode into the room, Harry saw that he hadn’t changed one bit. Malfoy was a smug, self-satisfied arse, wearing that stupid Malfoy family ancient signet ring, just like he always had been. He’d left his robe unbuttoned, and it flowed behind him as if the secretary’s fan were blowing on only him. Malfoy looked unnaturally cool, and Harry, whose shirt was plastered to his back, hated him just a bit more for not even breaking a sweat.

Harry stepped back from Dimplethwait and crossed his arms over his chest as he scowled at Malfoy. “You’re the one in charge of this—this—cost cutting?” He tried to drench the word in sarcasm and disgust in addition to anger, but his voice cracked like a teenage boy’s when Malfoy chose that moment to remove his robe and hang it on the coat stand. His Muggle trousers were tight—obscenely tight— _who wears trousers that tight!—_ and it wasn’t a good look on him. At all.

Harry focused on the heat, and his clinging shirt, and the nauseating stench of the orchids. And the cost cutting. Yeah. The cost cutting. And how much he despised Draco Malfoy. “What do you mean, don’t ask again. I’ll ask if I want to. Mr. Dimplethwait, what’s your price for the Cannons?”

Dimplethwait, who’d apparently grown bored of the conversation, had wandered over to the windowsill to resume whispering to his plants, and Harry wasn’t even sure he’d heard the question. 

Malfoy took Dimplethwait’s place, leaning on the corner of the desk. He rolled his eyes and said, “Are you quite done?”

Harry sat back down on the bench seat, which was even more uncomfortable because he was stuck to it, and gritted his teeth. “What the hell are you even doing here? Are you some tropical specialist?”

“That doesn’t make sense,” Draco said, moving a half-dozen pots out of the way so he could fit easier on the desk. When Mr. Dimplethwait heard clay scraping against wood, he whirled around, but Draco stood and re-placed the flowers before Mr. Dimplethwait could speak. “Smart as ever. I’m a financial adviser. I work with a variety of clients to maximize the return on their investments.”

This time, Harry rolled his eyes. “What do you know about money? Besides that you grew up with it.”

Draco leaned into Harry’s space, loomed over him, and when he spoke, Draco’s voice was decisive and sharp, a tone he must use on businessmen to cut them to shreds, decimating them before they finally learned to shut their mouths and listen. “After Hogwarts, where I had top marks, by the way, I attended Cambridge—both the Muggle and wizard schools. I have dual degrees in finance and business.” 

He’d been wrong. 

Malfoy had changed, grown in the last 10 years. Ok, yeah, he was still smug and self-satisfied, but he radiated a confidence. At Hogwarts, Malfoy’s importance came from his family’s money and prestige. But this was different. Deeper, like a man who knew his worth and wasn’t used to people talking back to him.

The moment was thick between them, weighed heavy with their past and this present. 

Harry leaned forward the tiniest bit—any further and their noses would have touched. _Another inch, and I could kiss him if I didn’t despise him._ “People pay you a lot of money to have you yell at them, don’t they.”

“What? Yes, of course.” Malfoy blinked quickly, like he’d forgotten what they’d been talking about. Or maybe he felt intimidated by Harry. 

Harry moved in even closer, and his nose skimmed Malfoy’s. “Luckily, I don’t pay you,” he whispered. He moved quickly, angled away from Malfoy, and called, “Dimplethwait. What are the Cannons worth to you?” He barely kept the laughter from his voice, because he'd tricked Malfoy. Made him look stupid. 

“Oh, nothing, nothing.” Dimplethwait didn’t bother to turn away from his flowers. “Tax write-off, very complicated. The more money the Cannons lose, the better I do financially. Capital gains, et cetera, et cetera.”

Malfoy covered his face with his hands and shook his head. 

“You _want_ them to lose money? That’s why the no-trade clauses, the bad salaries, and that shit you call a dressing room?” Harry’s voice rose with each accusation. 

“It’s just business, dear boy.” Dimplethwait turned and looked at Harry blankly. “Nothing personal.”

Christ, Ginny played for this arsehole. The team had suffered through this crap just to play. He felt so bad for them. 

Most of them. 

He didn’t feel bad for Zabini at all. 

Malfoy stepped in front of Harry, blocking his view of Dimplethwait. Harry wasn’t sure whether Malfoy did it to grab his attention or to stop him from rushing Dimplethwait and strangling him. “Potter. Potter! Let’s discuss this our—” 

“Twenty million Galleons. I’ll pay 20 million for the Cannons,” Harry said, pushing Malfoy out of his way to shout at Dimplethwait. In the back of his mind it may have registered that Malfoy was solid, muscle where none had been at school. “Bet that’ll buy a lot of orchid seeds. Trees. Bulbs. However the fuck they grow.”

That caught Dimplethwait’s attention. He pursed his lips and nodded. “The Shenzen Nongke is one absent from my collection. My dealer has said he could possibly obtain one for 10,000 Galleons…”

Draco grabbed Harry by the shoulders and held him in place. “Do you even have 20 million Galleons?” he hissed.

“Of course I do. I have a lot in the vault at Gringott’s.” _Right? Like, he’d never counted it or anything, but there was a lot in there._

“Oh, Merlin’s saggy pants.” Malfoy face-palmed again. “You have no idea how much you have?” he said into his hands.

“There’s my parents’ money. And the money from Sirius,” Harry said, his voice faltering. “And Grimmauld Place…” Well, fuck. He didn’t have any idea how much money he had. What if he didn’t have enough? Maybe he could take the offer back and—

“20 million you say? I’ll do it! Yes, of course. I’ll do it.” Mr. Dimplethwait marched over to Harry and grabbed his hand to shake on the deal. “Best wishes, dear boy. Hopefully, the Cannons will be as lucrative for you as it has been for me.”

Laughter welled up in Harry’s chest, threatened to burst out of him, at the same time that his stomach felt like a thousand snakes uncoiling and squirming. He just shaken hands on a verbal contract for a team he didn’t know how to run for money he didn’t know if he had. 

_Oh. Fuck._

When Malfoy looked up from his hands, his eyes were wild, like he had an idea he didn’t quite like. “Dimplethwait, I’ll finalize the details and send a contract by owl, no later than tomorrow.”

Dimplethwait, who’d begun moving his beloveds back to their rightful place on the bench in front of desk, waved with one hand and didn’t seem to notice when Malfoy manhandled Harry out of the office. 

“What the—” 

“For once, just keep your mouth shut, Potter,” Draco said as he pushed Harry past Jasmine and into the hallway. 

“Let go of me.” Harry wrestled his way out of Malfoy’s tight grasp and turned on him, his hands already in fists, ready to punch the wild look right off Malfoy’s face.

“You just agreed to a legally binding contract that you can’t pay. He can sue your arse. Take everything you own.” Malfoy reached out to shake sense into Harry, but he stopped himself. “Including your home.”

The words slammed into Harry, and the laughter died. Only the snakes remained, writhing, striking, then rearing up to strike again. “Fuck me.”

“I’d rather not,” Malfoy said and adjusted the knot of his tie. “You’re not my type. I prefer a man who’s not destitute or in prison for _breach of contract._ Luckily for you, I have an idea. Meet me at the Leaky as soon as possible. Do not bring Weasley with you.”

How’d Malfoy know Ginny was waiting? Or—“Wait, which one?”

“Neither,” Malfoy said and with a twist he was gone. 

Harry stood alone in the hallway, still reeling from his own stupidity. There’d been so much in Malfoy’s sentence, Harry had no idea how to unpack it. 

“He’s gay? Wait. What does he mean, I’m not his type?” Harry asked no one. “Wait. If I wasn’t poor or in jail, I’d be his type? And what about his robe that's still in Dimplethwait's office??”

That was just typical Malfoy bullshit, he thought as he stalked out of that greenhouse of a building and into the frigid December afternoon. He had no idea where the Trainers’ room was, but now that he apparently owned the Cannons, it was probably time to find out.


	5. The Who We Are At This Moment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy's different. He's got a sense of purpose, and now, the new owner of the Chudley Cannons does, too. 
> 
> Brought to you (so very loosely) by this prompt: 
> 
> also, i literally have no idea what this is. Is it a British treat? a specialty? it looks like an inverted chocolate chip bundt cake to me. O.o

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My friends, thank you for being patient with me. Life, man. Sometimes it's like a toddler, standing up and screaming YOU'RE NOT PAYING ENOUGH ATTENTION TO MEEEEEEEEEEE. 
> 
> This chapter is short. Already starting on today's (which is ch 6)

Harry tumbled out of the Leaky’s Floo, stumbling over the raised hearth as he scanned the post-work crowd for Malfoy instead of watching where he was going. 

“Stupid git,” Harry grumbled, unable to see anyone with platinum blond hair. The Leaky was packed, people who’d popped in for a quick drink before heading home from the office or meeting friends for dinner and a night out. Harry couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out so late in the day. “That’s just like him, probably swanned off instead of waiting just because I took longer.”

At that moment, Malfoy stood up and looked around; he smiled broadly when he saw Harry and waved him over to the corner table. “Glad you came,” Malfoy said, extending his hand. 

Harry studied Malfoy as they shook hands—the thin creases at the corner of his eyes as he grinned and the way he grasped Harry’s hand so warmly. Harry thought he might actually _be_ happy that Harry had shown up. 

Malfoy had a small smear of white icing in the corner of his lips. In the time it took Harry to get to the Leaky, Malfoy had demolished half of the dessert he’d ordered and finished at least one cup of coffee—possibly more, based on Malfoy’s energy when Harry’s was flagging. 

The Floo roared to life, and the crowd shouted very loud hellos. Malfoy waited for the noise to die down before trying to speak, which gave Harry a moment to observe Malfoy. He’d changed since Hogwarts. Not just physically, although the muscles and well-tailored Muggle clothing were a real plus. And his hair was stylish, short but with enough length to run fingers through. It was also his sense of self. A man with a sense of purpose. Someone who knew why they woke up each morning.

Maybe Ginny was right. Not about the routines, because those were age old. But that, when he fucked up his knee, he’d chosen to give up on everything. He and Beatrix had discussed this at length over the past year. About forgiving himself, but also acknowledging that the choices we make are right at the time, for the ‘who we were at that moment.’ But that humans (and wizards) are dynamic, constantly changing, and we have to understand that our decisions must be dynamic, also. If they don’t fit the ‘who we are at this moment,’ then we owe it to ourselves to change them. 

And he’d done that today, yeah? He’d bought the freaking Chudley Cannons. That was one giant leap out of his comfort zone. And now, Harry Potter was a man with a purpose. He felt giddy with it, like he maybe could think about possibly taking over the world. 

Now, he just had to keep Beatrix’s voice out of his head. He laughed and, on a dare to himself, he picked up the extra fork on the table and stole a bite of Malfoy’s cake. 

“


	6. Sixten Will Get You 20 Million

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco has the perfect answer to Harry's finances and a solicitor to help them. 
> 
>   
> Brought to you by this prompt: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok, we're all caught up. :) I hope you enjoy tonight's chapter!

Harry frowned as Malfoy slid an envelope across the scratched table. It seemed kind of thin for the contract, or anything about the Cannons. He flipped the envelope and immediately recognized the wax seal. 

“You got my fucking bank records?” Harry snapped, slamming the unopened envelope down. “That’s illegal! It’s immoral!”

“It’s called _friends who owe you a huge favor,”_ Malfoy said, waving away Potter’s anger. “It’s absolutely immoral and illegal, but I felt it would save us time, since you have no idea how much money you have, which also means you have no idea if you can close this deal. Also, it’s sealed with Gringott’s official imprint. I didn’t look, so I also have no idea.”

“Yeah, right,” Harry said under his breath and opened the envelope. His eyebrows rose higher and higher as he scanned the numbers. 

Merlin’s left knee, he had a little over 12 million in liquid assets, plus trusts from Sirius, his Potter grandparents, and his own parents. Christ, he was fucking loaded, but not enough to buy the Cannons. If he could use the trust funds, he could easily buy them, but he couldn’t touch those til he turned 30.

“I truly didn’t look. That would be a shit thing for your new partner to do.” Malfoy wrapped his fingers around Harry’s wrist to grab Harry’s attention from the parchment. 

And he did. Harry closed his eyes and let himself feel the softness of Malfoy’s fingertips and the low thrum of his magic as it meshed with Harry’s. it took a moment for Malfoy’s words to register. “I don’t have a partner—” He pulled his arm back in surprise, and Malfoy’s fingers fell away. Harry immediately missed Malfoy’s touch.

“You do now!” Malfoy’s grin returned. “We each put up half and buy the Cannons. With my knowledge of finances and your—” he stopped for a moment, as if he were searching for the best word. “Well, you’re Harry Potter. That’s enough. We’ll take the British and Irish Quidditch League by storm.”

Malfoy’s enthusiasm was contagious, and Harry grinned with him. Some of the old Malfoy was still there: breaking rules, putting Harry down, underestimating him. But Harry liked this new Malfoy.

“Listen, Malfoy. I didn’t even agree to be partners with you. I can sell Grimmauld Place—”

“And you’ll live where?”

“And even if I agreed, I’m not just going to be some—some—pretty face,” Harry said as Malfoy snorted with laughter. “You know what I mean. I want to be a proper owner. Do proper owner things. I have some great ideas already.”

“I can’t wait to hear them all,” Malfoy said, reaching into his satchel and laying a folder on the table. Harry thought maybe Malfoy was being sarcastic. “I have a contract that Dimplethwait’s solicitor expedited. He must really want those orchids.”

Harry pulled the file in front of him, and before he got through the first paragraph, he knew he was in over his head. The words made no sense. _Party of the first part, heretofore known as…_ and _Party of the second part, heretofore referred to as…_ Who wrote this way?

“Draco. You’re a hard man to find.”

Harry’s mouth fell open. Malfoy’s friend was easily the most beautiful man—the most beautiful person—he’d ever seen in real life. Or anywhere. He looked like a Roman statue come to life, with his strong chin and high cheekbones. His smile with his perfect teeth. And his trousers were a size too small.

Malfoy stood and hugged the intruder, which was bad enough, but when this—this—person kissed Malfoy’s cheek, that was too much.

“You two know each other?” Harry asked, hoping he sounded annoyed at the interruption, but he was pretty sure he sounded whiny and surprised.

“Another brilliant observation, Potter,” Malfoy drawled. He held out the empty chair for his friend, who sat down. “This is Sixten Lundberg. He’s a former Quidditch star for the Swedish-Norwegian League and current solicitor.”

_Current what else?_ Harry thought to himself as Malfoy cozied up to Sixten and picked a piece of imaginary lint off his obviously high-dollar suit jacket. 

The twisting in Harry’s gut was hunger. It was clearly past his normal dinner time already. Of course, because it wasn’t like he gave a fuck if Malfoy brought all of his boyfriends to his meetings. 

Harry caught a server’s attention and asked for coffee, which he promptly spilled on the table. He dabbed at it with napkins and papers before it could dribble onto his baggy, worn jeans. 

Harry pulled Malfoy’s plate close enough that he could cut chunks of cake with his fork and shove them into his mouth. No wonder Malfoy laughed when Harry called himself a pretty face.

“And Sixten, this is Harry Potter, the one I told you about.”

Sixten rose from his chair and leaned across to shake Harry’s hand. He flashed a brilliant smile, warm and kind. “Hi, Harry.” His voice held the slightest lilt. “Draco’s spoken of you often.”

Harry also rose to shake hands and knocked over the table’s golden reindeer centerpiece. He fumbled to right it and thought, “Solicitor, huh? You look more like a cover of a romance novel.”

Malfoy gasped. “Christ, Potter. Don’t be a dick.”

_Oh, shit. I said that outloud._ Harry’s face flushed, and he mumbled an apology, but Sixten waved it off. “Nothing I haven’t heard before,” he said with a laugh. “But not a cover boy. Draco asked me to meet with you both to look over the contract.”

_Not a cover boy,_ Harry mimicked in his head.

Malfoy and Lundberg stared at Harry.

_Fuck, fuck, fuck, did I say that out loud, too?_

“Potter. The file?” Malfoy asked in exasperation and pointed in front of Harry.

The cake plate sat on the folder. He’d dropped crumbs on it and in his haste to clean up the sloshed coffee, had pushed the file into the spill. “I’m not usually like this,” Harry explained awkwardly. “The past two days have been—”

Sixten smiled again. “Really, no worries. If you want to talk about spills on contracts, Draco should tell you about the time we—”

“No. No. Noooo.” Malfoy held up his hand to stop Sixten. “That story is—just no.” They laughed together, and Harry wondered how far their past extended. And what kind of past (he airquoted the word in his head) they shared.

When their laughter died down, Lundberg opened the file, and he and Malfoy began to study the contract. Harry fumed as they excluded him, pointing out details and speaking quietly in financial jargon.

_Old habits, Harry. They die hard. You have to make a conscious decision each time if you want to continue in the old habit or use your new strategies,_ Beatrix had said more times than he could count.

If this were his—their—contract, their purchase, then he needed to be part of this discussion and not sit back and fume that Malfoy and his boyfriend were closing him out. Harry gathered his emotional strength and asked, “Do you have an extra copy of the contract so we can all review it?”

That—that wasn’t hard at all. Harry breathed out slowly and if he were overly proud, he was fine with that. 

With a quick _Exemplum_ spell, Sixten produced a copy for Harry. “Sorry I didn’t think of it,” he said. 

He was alright, Harry thought. And if Malfoy were going to be his partner, at least him having an okay boyfriend was better than an arsehole boyfriend. 

By the time they finished going over the contract and making suggested changes, it was well past dark. “Thank Merlin that’s over,” Malfoy said through a yawn.

Sixten gathered the documents, duplicated them, and slid the originals back into the folder, Harry definitely didn’t understand him, because if Malfoy were _his_ boyfriend, stretching until his shirt buttons strained against the pull, Harry’s eyes would be all over that. 

He was a good solicitor, a nice guy, but Sixten was a crap boyfriend.

And for some reason, that thought made Harry beam.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you ask me what Sixten looks like, I'd show you:
> 
> This is Gabriel Landeskog, who plays for the NHL's Colorado Avalanche as well as Team Sweden.


	7. Meatballs, Lutefisk, Swedish Fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry has no idea why he doesn’t want to smash Draco’s face in so much any more. 
> 
> Super loosely based on this prompt: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, this chapter has no right to be a chapter. But I think this is how it's gonna be, guys. Some days I just won't get a chance to write. I'm committed to this, so hang with me.

“I’ll make the suggested changes and send the contract over to Dimplethwait’s solicitor in the morning.” Lundberg tapped the folder against Malfoy’s chest. “If you think of anything else, owl me.”

“Of course.”

_Of course._ In his head, Harry mocked Malfoy, who looked _adoringly_ up at Lundberg, at all 8 feet tall of him, a wall of solid muscle, with his stupid ginger-blond hair, and stupid unnaturally perfect white teeth, and Harry almost gagged at how— _stupid_ Malfoy looked. 

“Harry, great to put a face to a name,” Lundberg said with a clap on Harry’s shoulder. “We’ll talk soon.” And with a flash of green flames, Lundberg was gone. 

“He’s great, isn’t he?” Malfoy asked, pushing his fringe out of his eyes; at some point during the evening, the product that held his hair perfectly in place had given out. To Harry, Malfoy seemed more approachable this way. Less like some rigid financial analyst and more like someone you could spend evenings with, feet up in front of the fireplace. 

Which is probably how Lundberg felt.

“Great. Great,” Harry agreed without any warmth in his voice. “He’s great.”

“You don’t like him.” Malfoy’s shoulders slumped as he frowned. “I was hoping you would. It would be so much easier—” 

“He’s fine.” Harry pasted a smile in place. “Seems like a bloke you can trust.”

“He really is. He—” Malfoy’s stomach growled loudly. “Oh, Salazar, that’s embarrassing. I only had that pudding today—” 

Harry laughed and realized the swirling in his stomach must be hunger. Of course. That made sense. “Do you want to get something to eat? We could go back to mine—”

Malfoy raised one eyebrow. “Careful, Potter, or I might think you’re flirting with me.”

Harry’s face flushed as he stuttered out a reply. “That’s not what I meant. Kreacher always has food waiting, and he makes too much. It’s not always great, but it’s edible and better than I can do. Plus, I haven’t told you any of my ideas.”

“Sounds good. Should I send a message to Sixten to meet us there?” 

“You could, yeah.” But Harry didn’t want Lundberg there. Not really. It was as if this business between them was too new, something for just the two of them to share. He thought as fast as he could. “But uh, I don’t know about, y’know, how much Kreacher made, or what it will be. It’s probably not Swedish meatballs or lutefisk or Swedish fish—the stuff they eat.”

Malfoy laughed, not a polite chuckle but a long, loud belly laugh until he couldn’t breathe. “Swedish fish aren’t—oh my god—lutefisk. That stuff is so—” 

Harry didn’t care if what he’d said wasn’t supposed to be funny. To hear Malfoy laugh like that, without holding back, to see the worry lines erased from his face—he’d realized he’d gladly say dumb things to see that again. 

“Yeah, Sixten can get his own dinner.” Draco’s laughter drifted off into a charming smile.

Harry felt something flip in his stomach. It was warm and fond, and Harry has no idea what it meant, what to do with it. “Uh, I’ll, uh—” he cleared his throat and began again. “I’ll go first and unlock the wards on the Floo. Just tell it 12 Grimmauld Place.” 

Harry grabbed a pinch of the emerald Floo powder and tossed it into the flames. 

“Potter. It was my grandmother’s house. I know the address,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes at Harry. “But, thank you.” 

_This is good,_ Harry thought as he stepped into the flames. They could catch up, learn about each other over dinner. _I mean—talk about my ideas._

Just because Malfoy was an old school mate, someone he’d spent 7 years thinking about. Just because his features were softer now, less pointy and more handsome. And fit. Just because his put-downs felt less angry and more like teasing. 

It didn’t mean anything. And also, Lundberg. 

Like Dimplethwait said. It was business. Nothing personal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another gratuitous photo of Gabe Landeskog. 


	8. Call Me Draco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Malfoy has dinner with Harry.
> 
> Brought to you by this prompt: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clearly I'm not going to hit "posting every day." sigh. but onward and upward.

In the few seconds he had, Harry dashed around the sitting room grabbing the empty pizza boxes, crusty take away containers (when was the last time he had Chinese?), and so many empty bottles.

“Potter. Did you forget again that you’re a wizard?”

Harry stopped in place, arms overflowing and wand still snug in his back pocket. He bit his lips and laughed silently as he nodded. 

Malfoy stepped off the hearth, and with a flick of his wand the rubbish was gone. “Doesn’t Kreacher take care of that?” he asked, slowly taking in the room. 

Now that his hands were empty, Harry didn’t know what to do with them. He jammed them into his jeans pockets. “No, he doesn’t _take care of that,”_ Harry said. “He cooks because he won’t not cook. I gave him clothes, a proper room. I pay him a salary. He still wants to sleep in a corner.” 

Harry watched him examine the knick-knacks he’d accumulated over the past ten years, some gifts from friends and some from his occasional travels to Europe and the States. He felt awkward, like Malfoy was somehow judging his life. Harry squirmed as Malfoy continued his circuit around the room, looking at framed pictures and touching anything he found interesting. 

Harry waited for Malfoy to poke at the way he lived. Grimmauld Place wasn’t much to look at; he hadn’t changed anything since his initial renovations because it felt comfortable, familiar. But looking at the room through Malfoy’s eyes, he saw the cobwebs in the corners, the thick dust on the bookshelves, and that one spot they’d missed when he and Ron and Hermione had painted the room—and themselves. 

Malfoy stopped at the couch and picked up the white sequined pillow with the words _Cuddle Weather_ written in black. He raised one eyebrow and smirked at Harry. “Who are you cuddling, Potter?”

Harry’s face flushed in embarrassment as he grabbed the pillow back. “It was a gift from Rose last Christmas,” Harry said, and when Malfoy’s eyebrow rose higher, he added, “Oh, get your mind out of the gutter. She’s my niece—Ron and Hermione’s daughter. When they come over, we sit on the couch and cuddle. Just because I don’t have someone to cuddle like some people do—” 

Harry waited for the snarky comment, but it didn’t come. Instead, Malfoy’s face looked blank, like he was trying to figure something out. 

“Master Draco!” 

Kreacher appeared in the doorway to the living room, wearing a bath towel as a toga. “You have returned. The rightful heir of the House of Black has returned to restore us to our former glory.” He attempted to bow at the waist, but Harry was certain by the gurgles of pain, that Kreacher was stuck. 

Harry rolled his eyes, sighed dramatically and helped Kreacher stand up. “This is my house. Sirius left it to me. We’ve been over this a thousand times.”

Kreacher ignored Harry. “I made dinner for him, but he has Muggle taste. Soup and toast. Soup and toast.” He leaned in to Malfoy and whispered loudly, “Allow me to prepare something more fitting of the House of Black? A nice unicorn bourguignon. I have a bottle of Burgundy that Master Black purchased to celebrate his Muggle stock market success in 1929—”

Harry dropped his head into his hands. “Kreacher, stop.”

Malfoy laughed kindly and said, “That sounds delicious. Maybe next time. Whatever you’ve made for Harry is fine for me.”

Kreacher shuffled out of the room, barely holding his voice to a mumble. “Almost had a proper Master. Kreacher must continue to try. The house needs a real Black…”

When Kreacher had finally made it out of the room, Harry began apologizing as profusely as he could, but Malfoy was doubled over laughing. 

“That was brilliant,” he said, gasping for breath. “I forgot was an utter arse he was.” 

As Harry watched Malfoy laugh, his own self-consciousness dissipated. “He’s not as bad as he used to be—”

Which started Malfoy guffawing all over again. “Merlin help us, he used to be worse?”

Harry couldn’t talk though his own laughter. He nodded and gulped in breaths until he was able to speak. “I can’t repeat the things he said when I moved in.”

“Soup and toast,” echoed from the kitchen downstairs, and even Malfoy heard the long-suffering tone, which sent them laughing again. 

“Come on,” Harry said, forgetting he’d been embarrassed about the dust or the pillow. “Soup and toast.” He copied Kreacher’s voice as he led Malfoy down the stairs to the warm kitchen. 

Kreacher had set their places, placing their food at opposite ends of the long table. “I’m not sure who he’s trying to keep away from the other,” Malfoy said, on the verge of another laugh attack. “Is it okay if—” He grabbed his bowl and plate and stood, waiting. 

“Uh, yeah,” Harry said, wondering where Malfoy wanted to sit. When Malfoy put his dinner next to Harry’s, Harry was speechless. “Brilliant. That’s—yeah that’s good.”

Malfoy smiled at Harry, his eyes still crinkled with laughter, and Harry could barely catch his breath. Malfoy looked beautiful, young and carefree in a way he never looked when they were young. Laughter lines replaced the worry. His eyes, that Harry had once thought were angry storm clouds, were peaceful tonight. Even his posture seemed easy, relaxed. Happy. 

“What is this? It’s good.” Malfoy asked, dipping his spoon back into the bowl. “It’s _really_ good.”

Harry checked to see if he were joking. “You’ve never had chicken noodle soup?”

“It’s brilliant! Do you think there’s more?”

Harry nodded and tucked into his own serving. 

They ate in silence with the occasional clink of metal on porcelain breaking the quiet.

Harry may have peeked at Malfoy as he ate, watched him catch the last chunk of chicken and thick noodle. Frown because the toast was gone. Merlin help him—he needed to stop gawking at Malfoy, because he wasn’t beautiful when he laughed or kind when he asked after all the Weasleys. He was Harry’s partner, and they needed to keep a professional relationship. Yes. _Malfoy._

Malfoy placed his spoon inside the empty bowl. “I was thinking. Since we’re partners, you should probably call me Draco.”

Harry was so screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 


	9. Harry's Big Idea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry discuss their plans for the Cannons, and Draco shows Harry a new Quidditch move. 
> 
> Lucky us, today's chapter is brought to us by **two** prompts: 
> 
>   
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for your patience. I've changed the number of chapters to 22.

“Call you Draco?”

“Well, it _is_ my name.” Draco smiled warmly at Harry. He stacked the bowls and plates and carried them to the sink. “Let’s talk about some of the ideas you have for the Cannons.”

This whole day was unreal—Harry had bought a professional Quidditch team, met his arch nemesis for the first time in 10 years, found out they were now business partners, found out he wasn’t actually evil, found out he was actually alright, maybe better than alright, and here he was, running water over the dishes. 

Harry literally didn’t know which was the most unreal of all of those. But if he had to choose, it would be Malfoy—Draco—fitting seamlessly into Harry’s home. Washing the dishes with a sponge and soap. Drying his hands first on the worn dish towel and then on his trousers. Coming back to the table. 

_I could definitely get used to this,_ flitted through Harry’s traitorous mind before he could remember Sixten. 

Malfoy was being a professional, helping Dimplethwait get the best deal. And now, sitting with Harry in his kitchen, Malfoy was working with his business partner to make their venture as lucrative as possible. _Anything else is in my mind,_ Harry told himself, resolved to squash any unprofessional feelings he might have. 

Malfoy brought a pot of tea and two mugs over to the table. “While you were daydreaming, I was doing the real work,” he said, summoning the cream from the counter and pouring it into the mugs. “Hopefully, this isn’t the way it will be, with me doing the thinking _and_ the work.”

Malfoy was trying to look stern, but the tip of his tongue peeked out between his lips, and Harry’s resolve melted. He flipped Malfoy off, but it felt weak and fond. 

“Tell me your ideas, because the Cannons are a mess.” Malfoy sat back in the chair, his hands wrapped around the mug, waiting for Harry’s answer. 

“I spent some time a few years ago, travelling in the States. It was after Ginny and I broke up—” Harry stated it as information that needed to be out there. If Draco had any questions, they needed to address them now. 

But Draco just nodded.

“I met some blokes who were into baseball. They were living in this mobile home and going around the country seeing as many games as they could. By the end, I knew as much about baseball as they did. A few of them switched to ice hockey, and I stayed.”

The time rambling around the States—they’d been good days, what he’d needed after his very public breakup. Someone else in charge, moving him from place to place, responsible only for feeding himself, even if it was only hot dogs and peanuts. He lost himself in the piss Americans call beer, in baseball and then hockey. Comparing players and their statistics. Arguing over coaches’ decisions. Rehashing games late into the night. It was Quidditch, just different. 

He never did figure out where _their_ money came from. He’d gone to Gringott’s in Manhattan and they’d given him something called an ATM card linked to his account and showed him how the Muggle machines would give him cash. He also met with their No-Maj specialist, who gave him a phone and wouldn’t let him leave til he knew the right lingo.

Malfoy continued to listen, and Harry wondered if he were catching the sub-text of his trip. That he’d gone to explore his sexuality where he could be invisible. In the end he’d had a lot of great sex, made good memories, dulled bad ones, and exchanged phone numbers with the blokes in case “you ever come back across the pond.”

“Anyway. The first thing we should do is renovate the stadium. Enclose it—” 

Malfoy angled forward, opened his mouth as if he were going to interrupt Harry, but then closed it. 

“Yeah, I know. No one plays Quidditch indoors. But we can configure the extension charm so that no matter where the players fly, the stadium will accommodate it. And, the best part is, we can regulate the temperature. It can be a constant 24 degrees inside. No more freezing your bollocks off.”

Harry had been thinking about indoor Quidditch since the day before when Ginny suggested he buy the Cannons. It would be brilliant playing inside. 

“But, no one’s ever—” Malfoy argued, but it sounded half-hearted, like he wasn’t sure why he was fighting. “It’s not right—it’s I mean, there’s no reason—” 

“I. Know. It’s brilliant.” Harry was almost bouncing in his chair in excitement. If he could get Draco to agree to this, the rest would be easy. “People will want to come to a game just to see what a stupid idea Indoor Quidditch is. And when they’re watching in their robes instead of winter robes and scarves and gloves and everything—They’ll keep coming back.” 

Draco looked horrified and interested at the same time. “If we are going to renovate anyway, it may be worth exploring the cost—” Draco tapped his chin as he thought. “And we _are_ going to renovate. That hideous neon orange is going.”

“That’s gotta stay—”

“Not on the stadium walls, in the loos, and definitely not the grass. Let’s undo whatever spell was cast to make orange turf. The walls can be white with orange accents. We can play up the yellow, too. And for Merlin’s sake, can we please replace the fixtures in the loo, because every time I take a piss in an orange urinal, I think I’m dying.”

Harry laughed, remembering his headache from the orange building. They hammered out other changes to the stadium and the training facility, including an immediate upgrade of the dressing rooms. 

Harry picked up his mug to take a sip of his tea, but he’d finished it at some point. He’d been so engrossed in their discussion, he hadn’t even realized it was done. “More tea?” he asked and with a flick of wand, the kettle filled itself and settled on the hob.

“Would you mind if we moved to the living room?” Draco asked. He looked uncomfortable asking, as if he were being too forward. “I’m cold, and that room was warm. The fire. It was nice.”

“Sure. Okay.” Harry tugged at the neck of his jumper. To him, the kitchen was uncomfortably warm, just as it was every night at dinner. Maybe Malfoy had ice water in his veins. Seemed that way sometimes…Harry took the jumper off and tossed it onto the kitchen table. 

With the tea service following behind, he joined Draco upstairs. At least the big couch would definitely be more comfortable than the spartan kitchen chairs.

But the big couch was empty. Instead, Draco had dragged the small couch in front of the fire. Harry shook his head—as sofas went, it was pretty small. It’d be hard for two grown men to sit there comfortably. He and Rosie didn’t always fit well, and Malfoy was a hell of a lot bigger than his niece. 

Draco had moved the table as well and propped his socked feet up. “This is great,” he said, waggling his feet. “That, though.” He nodded toward the lone stocking hanging from the mantle. _“Santa, I can explain?_ What exactly do you have to explain, Potter?” He grinned at his own jibe. 

Harry set the tea service on the coffee table and rubbed the back of his neck. Maybe Malfoy had lost his mind, or maybe Kreacher put something in the soup, because this wasn’t making any sense. 

“You really think we can get away with indoor Quidditch?” Draco asked, pouring tea for both of them. “What about the twat who owns Puddlemere? He complains about everything.”

Harry dropped onto the sofa and launched into his reasons why the extension charm would be perfect, and Draco refuted each one. 

“—time honored tradition of playing in extreme conditions—”

“—fans are going to complain—”

“—who wants to play when it’s too hot—”

Harry threw his arms up in frustration. His heart pounded in frustration and he wanted to throttle Malfoy. _This is a partnership made in Hell._ Except that, sitting in front of the crackling fire, knee to knee with Malfoy, trading ideas as they argued didn’t feel like Hell at all. He liked the way Draco watched him as he spoke, paid attention to him fully, not distracted by anything else. The way his eyes were dark now, sparking as they argued. The habit he had of scraping his teeth over his bottom lip as he thought. “For fuck’s sake, Malfoy, why can’t you see this is what Quidditch needs?”

Draco snorted. “Why can’t _you_ see I’m just playing devil’s advocate?” 

“You—you think it’s a good idea?” 

“Shockingly enough, I do,” Draco said with a laugh. “Tell me it’s not your only one. That we haven’t used up your monthly quota of good ideas.”  
Harry flipped him off but without any heat. Draco made him want to laugh, made him feel like balloons soaring into the bright blue sky. “What good ideas do _you_ have?

“We need a new head coach, because either he sucks or Dimplethwait tied his hands so tight that he wasn’t allowed to do what he needed to. This team’s defense should be put out of its misery.”

“Oh, you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.” 

Before Harry finished the sentence, Draco was straddling his legs and pressing his chest against Harry’s. “We need to change things up. The Beaters need to get up in the other team’s space like this,” he said, his voice wavering. “Just because it used to be one way, doesn’t mean that it can’t be different now.” 

“That’s a foul.” Harry’s skin blazed where Draco touched him. He was so close, and Harry was hypnotized by the pale hair above his lip and the faint aroma of lemon. He wanted to nuzzle his nose against Draco’s hair, to kiss his skin and learn what was lemon scented. He wanted to kiss Draco, kiss and kiss him, to know if his whiskers were as soft as they looked. “It’s gonna get called. Anyone would tell you that.” When he could speak, his voice was breathy.

“Shouldn’t listen to what anyone else says.” Draco leaned in, his lips so close to Harry’s, and Harry only wanted him closer. “It’s worth taking a chance sometimes. Good things can come from it.”

Harry nodded. He was pretty sure Draco wasn’t talking about Beaters and Quidditch any more, but his heart was hammering so loudly, he couldn’t think. He thought maybe Draco could feel it where their chests touched. “Good things. Yeah. I’m all for good things.”

Harry could smell the sweet cream from the tea on Draco’s breath—if he closed the infinitesimal space between them, they’d be kissing. 

That sounded brilliant. 

Harry brushed the tip of his nose against Draco’s cheek. “I’m gonna, uh, s’ok if I—” 

A sharp tapping at the window shattered the mood, and Draco leapt off Harry’s lap. 

“Owl—I should—” Harry pointed at window. On the ledge above the snowy Christmas lights hovered a barn owl, it’s white face staring into the room. “—Get that.”

Malfoy waved Harry off. “That’s Sixten’s owl. It’s probably the contract.”

 _That’s Sixten’s owl._

Obviously Lundberg and he were close enough that Malfoy knew the owl on sight. What the hell was Malfoy playing at, sitting on his lap and making Harry almost kiss him when he—he—he knew _Sixten’s owl._

A gust of cold air blew into the room when Malfoy opened the window. Or maybe that was just the dejection settling into Harry’s heart.


	10. Thank Merlin For Bobbleheads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good Lord, what the hell did Dimplethwait do to his office?
> 
> Brought to you by these two prompts:
> 
> and  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully you can see both pictures. The first is a naked man with a sock that looks like a reindeer on his dick. That one was flagged by Tumblr for violating their new morals clause. The second is a statue of a Niffler. What the hell do you do with a Niffler prompt?
> 
> This fic is more like a bunch of vignettes with Harry and Draco bickering. We'll deal with Harry/Ginny and their infidelity soon (chapter 11 and 12 maybe).

Through his Auror work, Ron knew a bloke who had a mate whose cousin’s wife was top notch with magical renovation and environmental spells. And since the cousin’s wife had several times been found a hairsbreadth on the right side of the law, she was in no position to blab secrets. 

Just the person Harry was looking to hire for some secretive but completely legal work on the stadium. Someone who’d do what they were told and not ask any questions. And absolutely not go to the _Daily Prophet._

“They have to sign non-disclosure agreements,” Malfoy argued, waving the papers in Harry’s face. 

“And I’m telling you, the threat of the Aurors sniffing around their business is enough,” Harry said, gritting his teeth. “Now, you can either stand around here watching them work, or you can come with me to tackle the administration building.”

Harry pulled his jacket tighter against the cold, morning temperature and stalked off through the car park to the building where Dimplethwait’s office is. Was. Had been. Malfoy could do whatever the fuck he wanted. Harry was going to sweep out every last bit of the previous owner and remodel the office the way he wanted. He needed to think of this as theirs now. 

“It’s ours.” That sounded incredible.

“It won’t answer back,” Draco said from behind Harry. 

Harry jumped at the surprise of Draco’s hand on his shoulder and voice in Harry’s ear. His heart raced from the shock. Probably from the shock. 

“Just—get inside so we can start.”

They stepped into the lobby, and both gagged at the moist, oppressive air. “First things first,” Malfoy said. He opened the glass doors and used a sticking charm to hold them in place. The cold December air barely made a dent in the humidity. 

Harry raised an eyebrow.

“You keep quiet. I’m not finished.” Cautiously, Malfoy approached the thermostat on the wall. The plastic box that covered it was locked—most likely to keep anyone from lowering the temperature. Malfoy pulled his wand back, but Harry grabbed his hand.

“You’re not going to blast it, are you?” Harry asked, even though he knew the answer. “It’ll kill the box, and then it’ll screw up everything.”

Draco stepped back and motioned for Harry to try, grumbling under his breath. “…know so much, Mr. Knowitall…how was I supposed to know it was alive…stupid Muggle things…”

Harry broke open the plastic and adjusted the thermostat to 22 degrees. “I can’t believe I’m using air conditioning in December, but short of opening all the windows—”

With the temperature sorted, they looked around the lobby. All of the plants were gone. “Where is everyone? And the plants?” Harry asked as he looked around. 

“I sent an owl last night giving everyone the day off,” Draco said as he unstuck the front doors. “I saw that Dimplethwait didn’t waste any time getting his ‘babies’ out of here,” Draco said. “Hopefully he cleared his office out, too.”

~*~

Dimplethwait’s office was most definitely not cleared out. 

“Oh, Merlin,” Draco said, standing in the doorway between Jasmine’s office and theirs.

“Oh, Christ,” Harry said, looking over Draco’s shoulder. The room was—

If the place had been burglarized, up-ended, ransacked, it would have been neater. 

“That insane bastard,” Draco said through gritted teeth. “What the actual fuck was he thinking?”

The file cabinet drawers were open and folders and papers were strewn all over the floor. The corner cabinet, where Dimplethwait had kept the **Eye of Newt,** had been shifted and the floor in front of it was covered in glass shards and tiny white dots that Harry was not going to think about. The coat closet was open, everything was open and rifled through. 

“Was he looking for buried treasure?” Harry asked, not sure whether he was joking. “Did he have something hidden?”

Draco shrugged as he shook his head. “I have no idea. But instead of cleaning this with spells, we’re going to have to do it the Muggle way, because I don’t know what any of this is. And so I can’t say whether it’s important or not. Might as well get ready to work.”

Harry snickered at the thought of Draco working. He probably meant sit behind the desk and tell Harry what to do.

Draco shucked off his coat and hung it on the stand. Instead of rolling up the sleeves on his dress shirt, he took that off too, and draped it over his coat. “At least I wore jeans,” he said, and sat on the floor by the filing cabinet and gathered the papers one by one into a pile.

Malfoy in his vest and faded jeans. 

Harry couldn’t think of words. Because Malfoy in his vest and jeans. 

The thin cotton pulled across Malfoy’s shoulders each time he reached for another sheet of paper. The worn denim stretched across his arse as he crawled toward another splat of documents.

“Potter, don’t be a lazy git. Start cleaning something. I think you can use a spell to get rid of the glass and uh—potion ingredient.”

Harry cleared his throat and said “K” because his brain could only produce one letter. _He has a boyfriend. He has a boyfriend. Stop staring at him._ Vanishing the glass and potion ingredient took no time, so Harry moved on to the contents of the corner cabinet. 

“Hey, look!” Harry said, pulling a plaque out and blowing the dust toward Malfoy. “This commemorates the game in 1999 when they broke their sixteen-game losing streak by drawing with the Caerphilly Catapults.” 

“And?”

Harry knew his face was red with second-hand embarrassment. “It was the last time they didn’t lose.”

“Merlin help us. What have we gotten in to?” Draco sighed melodramatically and crawled toward another set of papers. 

“You know, maybe—” Harry said, trying to get his mouth to catch up to the speed of his thoughts. “We could celebrate that team! Have an old-timers’ night. Bring those people back, introduce them to the crowd, let them play for a few minutes—”

“Crowd?”

Harry smiled and nodded in agreement. “I know. But if they all brought a few family members, maybe our attendance would go up?”

“Why would they even agree?”

“American baseball does this all the time. They bring back old teams. They wear their uniforms. The fans love it. We could do a giveaway—like a bobble head or something.” It was one of the ideas Harry had on his list of things to try. It would be fun, and everyone would love it, and he’d get the Weasleys to come, and—“Oh god, I never told Ron I bought the Cannons.” Harry slapped his forehead, “Christ, I never even told Ginny. We probably should have a team meeting.”

While Harry talked, Draco had stood up and leaned against the file cabinet. “And a meeting with the front office staff, too.”

Harry’s shoulders slumped. “We have so much to do—clean this mess. Make this building fit to work in. Talk to the team. Meet with the staff.” He dropped his head to the desk and felt the acid rise in his stomach. He hadn’t even gone to the coffee shop for breakfast—

“We’ll get it done. What we need is help,” Draco said from behind Harry. He rubbed Harry’s back, and the soft back and forth felt calming, and Harry leaned into the warm pressure.

Harry nodded. “We need a plan. And help.”

Draco sat on the edge of the desk and prodded Harry until he sat up. “I have a brilliant idea. When your criminal friends—” Harry squawked, and Draco laughed, “—are finished with the stadium, they can work on painting the stadium and this building. Even the non-orange walls need re-painting.”

Harry nodded. He’d been stressing about when he was going to be able to get that done. 

Draco looked around and shrugged. “This room will take the rest of today, I think. If we work til lunch, and get take away, we can see who we can get to help us tomorrow.”

“If I ask, I bet Ginny could get the team together for a meeting,” Harry said, thinking out loud. Maybe they’ll be so happy not to work for Dimplethwait that they’ll actually help with the renovations.” He felt the tiniest spark of hope in his gut. 

“I’ve worked with Jasmine long enough that I know how to reach her at home. I’ll ask her to set up an office staff meeting for tomorrow morning.” Draco tugged his vest out of his jeans and pulled it up to wipe the dust from his face. 

Harry squeaked as he breathed in. Malfoy’s abs were perfectly defined, like magazine cover perfect, like seven days a week in the gym defined. He wondered what they’d feel like under him, their naked bodies pressed together slick with sweat or as he traced them with his tongue. Finger! He meant finger. _No, no no no. No. No fingering the business partner. No! That’s not—_

“Merlin.”

Draco dropped his vest and looked at Harry quizzically. 

Harry stood and stepped away from the desk as quickly as he could and turned away from Malfoy back to the corner cabinet. “A Niffler statue? Dimplethwait was really weird.” 

He handed it to Malfoy, who looked discouraged as he put it on the desk. Harry went back to the corner cabinet, throwing shit away. They worked in silence for quite a while, and Harry hated it. He liked when Draco was all know-it-all and making fun of him, not all quiet and gloomy, worried about Merlin knows what. 

Draco slammed his hand on the desk. “Potter. What the hell is a bobblehead?” 

The balloon of apprehension in Harry’s chest popped, and Harry exploded in laughter. “That—that took—so long for you—” 

“Stop laughing at me.”

But Draco didn’t sound angry or like he wanted Harry to stop. 

“It’s a plastic statue-thing, of a player,” Harry said between gasps, “the head is big, and—y’know—bobbles.” He waggled his hands in something that was supposed to look like bobbling. 

“I know no such thing. That’s ridiculous.” Draco hrumpfed and crossed his arms over his chest; when he swiveled his chair to face Harry, Harry saw the small crinkles at the corner of his eyes.

“I have some at home. I can bring one tomorrow—” 

“Or, we do have a significant amount of work to do when we leave here. I could go home with you, see this statue-thing bobble monstrosity—” Which made Harry laugh all over again, and Draco spoke over him, “And since you’ll likely have a thousand questions, it will be easier if I’m right there to answer them. Save an owl from dying of exhaustion.”

“I’ll see what Kreacher’s cooking?” Harry felt light-headed, giddy with the idea of Draco in his house again. He thought Draco might not hate being with him. Maybe, he might even like Harry a little. Of course, it had only been two days. But Harry had spent 7 years at Hogwarts ignoring his crush on Draco, pretending it was anger or spying or a dozen other things. The time they’d spent together brought Harry’s feeling back to the surface. 

Two days. Two months. Two years. It didn’t matter. Harry knew what he felt. Of course, it wasn’t love (yet), but he was so interested in knowing Draco more. And while he didn’t always get when people were flirting with him, he thought maybe Draco was. 

And Sixten? He’d broach that when it was time. 

“Make sure Kreacher has enough food for two?”

Draco grinned and shot Harry a thumbs up before returning to scanning the papers from the floor. He hummed a tune Harry didn’t recognize, but he liked it and liked that Draco felt comfortable with him. 

It was easy for Harry to think of a good memory to conjure his Patronus; he remembered the feeling of Draco straddling him the night before, their bodies pressed together. He couldn’t dwell on the memory or he’d embarrass himself. He sent the message to Kreacher and then decided to move on to cleaning the closet. Merlin only knew what he’d find in there. Probably another dozen Niffler statues, knowing Dimplethwait.

But that was okay, because he was with Draco (who hadn’t mentioned Sixten all day) and when they were done, they were going to leave together. 

Thank Merlin for bobbleheads.


	11. Still the same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry thought they had a moment. Thought Malfoy had changed. But he hadn't. At all. 
> 
> Brought to you (blink and you'll miss it) by this prompt: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you had the best holiday and that things are super quiet now. I had a lot going on, and I couldn't post, but I'm still writing! Thank you for reading. xox
> 
> fyi: Kevin Kiermaier/Star Wars bobblehead 
> 
> Noah Syndergaard-en gnome bobblehead 

“What does it _do?”_

“It doesn’t _do_ anything!” Harry grabbed the Kevin Kiermaier bobblehead back from Malfoy and carefully slid it back in its place on the shelf between his Mike Trout and Noah Syndergaard-en Gnome. “It’s just—it’s just nice.”

“Money. You want us to spend money making one of these for—” Malfoy pulled a folded paper from his back pocket and angrily jabbed his finger at it. “—for Michael Sullivan? The Seeker who caught the Snitch once _once_ in his entire career?”

“Well, when you put it like that—” Harry stormed out of his study where he kept his memorabilia. 

“What’s this?” Malfoy yelled, waving a yellow towel out the door. 

“You put that back right now.” Harry stomped back, snatched the towel from Malfoy’s hands, and pushed past him. “That’s my _Terrible Towel.”_ He pinned the towel to the shelf edge where it belonged. “You wave it and it helps the team win.”

“I didn’t feel any magic—”

“It’s not magic. It’s team spirit. It’s like, we’re all part of what’s happening.” Harry stepped back to check that it hung straight.

“So, the fans wave the towel, and the team wins.” 

“Are you trying to be an arse?” Harry asked, not looking at Malfoy because he was focusing every ounce of energy on _not_ punching him.

“I don’t have to try. Your collection makes it so easy—” 

Out of the side of his eye, Harry caught Draco’s quick smile and realized he was taking the piss. “You utter arse. You’re messing with me.”

“Soup and toast—” floated up the stairs. 

“Oh Merlin, it’s dinner time,” Draco said, his eyes wide in exaggerated innocence, and Harry wasn’t buying it. 

Harry made Draco leave the room first, before he could start again. He heard Draco badmouthing him to Kreacher and all Harry could do was grin. He was filthy and exhausted from digging through Dimplethwait’s garbage and hauling bags to the dumpster—strictly speaking, he didn’t _have_ to carry them like a Muggle, but Draco’s face did this funny thing, which made Harry’s heart do this funny thing. He should be cranky, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had this much energy at 7 pm. 

Owning the Cannons sure was agreeing with him.

~*~

Draco unfolded the parchment he pulled from his vest pocket. Harry assumed Draco’s dress shirt was still somewhere in Dimpleth—their—office; not that he was complaining, because he definitely wasn’t. The view was good. At some point, when Draco’d crawled into the depths of Dimplethwait’s closet (which must have had some kind of extension charm on it because it took hours to clean), he’d spelled the sleeves off his vest and ripped the neck. It was—distracting. How was he supposed to concentrate on whether they could use bottles of **Eye of Newt** for one of Harry’s “weird giveaways he was so obsessed with.”

And now Draco sat next to him at the dinner table, humming along to the Muggle Christmas song on the wireless, tapping the quill against his chin as he thought. His fringe was in his eyes again, and Harry ran his fingers through the fringe, pushing it out of the way, but it fell right back. Harry knew he was supposed to be listening, but he was foggy, imagining slowly removing Draco’s t-shirt, kissing the length of his collarbone, maybe only stopping to leave marks.

“Are you even listening?”

Harry’s face flushed, because he couldn’t lie fast enough. “You’ve got a smudge right—” He swiped his thumb to remove the dirt in the notch between his collarbones. Draco’s skin was soft, and Harry wanted. Merlin, he _wanted._

Draco breathed in sharply, breaking through Harry’s fog. “I’m sorry,” he said, pulling his hand back quickly. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“S’ok,” Draco said, his voice unsteady. “It’s fine. Really.”

But Harry knew he’d overstepped their tentative, new friendship. More like squashed it, he was pretty sure. He felt shaky and embarrassed. That was why he had routines; with routines, it didn’t matter if he didn’t think before he acted. “Sorry.”

“It’s really okay,” Draco said and covered Harry’s hand with his. 

Harry looked at their hands, casually together, at the dust that streaked Draco’s knuckles. It had been just barely 48 hours since Draco had bossed himself back into Harry’s life. Two days. How could he feel this much so fast?

“I’m a mess. I should’ve cleaned up,” Draco said. 

He swiped at the dirt, but Harry stopped him. “I think you look—incredible.” 

Everything he was feeling was obvious in the way he looked at Draco; he couldn’t have hidden it even if he’d wanted to. And when Draco looked up from their hands, Harry knew he saw it, because Draco’s eyes were warm and soft, too. 

Harry licked his dry lips to wet them, thought it might look sexual when that wasn’t what he intended. Decided if Draco took it that way, that would be alright, too. 

Draco held Harry’s gaze. “You have—dirt—here—” he said, his voice quiet and deep. He cupped Harry’s cheek, brushed his thumb across the hollow. He leaned in closer—

“Soup and toast!”

Harry and Draco jumped apart as bowls and plates appeared on the table. Hot soup splashed onto Harry’s hand. 

“Master Harry is burned.” Kreacher apparated with a sharp _pop,_ and Harry thought Kreacher sounded pleased. “Eat. Now,” he said out loud. Under his breath Kreacher mumbled something that Harry didn’t get. It sounded like _do not hurt Master Draco,_ but that didn’t make sense. He was just trying to help, y’know, wipe the dust off him. 

Kreacher stared at Harry as if he were stupid, and then he left. 

“When he rolls his eyes, you can’t miss it,” Draco said, taking a spoonful of the beef and barley soup. 

Harry nodded. He had way too much experience with Kreacher. 

They ate in silence until their bowls were empty. Draco pulled the parchment close again. “I owl’d Jasmine. She’s in charge of having the staff here at 10 tomorrow morning.”

He struck through something on his list.

“Errrr, I owl’d Ron to get help for tomorrow. It’s the Cannons. The Weasleys will be here.”

“And Ginevra?” Draco raised his eyebrow, like he didn’t believe Harry had actually contacted her. 

“What? She said she’d get the team here at 11. I figured that was a good way to keep the first meeting short.” 

Draco sat back in the kitchen chair and smirked.

Harry huffed out in frustration. “What? I told you I’d owl her, and I did.”

“That’s not what I’m asking. Can you work with her? Is this going to be a problem?”

Harry felt the anger burn as his shoulders tensed. _Fuck that, I’m not answering._

“Your break-up was extremely public and her subsequent relationship with Zabini is still news. Is this going to become some public relations nightmare? Temper tantrums? Snipes? What can I expect?

Harry stood abruptly and leaned forward, resting his weight on his fists. That way, he couldn’t punch Malfoy in his pompous, posh mouth. “No, because I’ve grown the fuck up. You should try it.” 

The closer Harry got, the further Malfoy angled away. Harry read something on Malfoy’s face—remorse? Regret?—but he didn’t care. 

“Put your bowl in the sink and see yourself out.”

Without a word, Harry sent his bowl flying to the sink, and he stalked out of the kitchen for bed.  


He’d thought Malfoy had changed. That maybe there was some spark of something between them. 

But he was still Malfoy.


	12. A Naughtie Bobblehead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their first Quidditch match as owners didn't go how Draco and Harry had hoped. 
> 
> based loosely on this prompt: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FIRST, thank you so much for your patience. It's definitely not abandoned, and my mojo is back. Unfortunately, with christmas, and then right after, one of my kids wound up in the hospital, so my time was really limited. 
> 
> SECOND, in my mind, Naughtie is pronounced "knock-tee" like on Hamish & Dougal. It just tickled me. What can I say? I'm a radio 4 nerd. 
> 
> THIRD, enjoy Evgeni Malkin from the Pittsburgh Penguins with his own bobblehead: 

***NEWS RELEASE***

****

**Join the Chudley Cannons on Saturday, December 8, 2018 as we celebrate the 20th anniversary of the Drops his head1999 Cannons team that battled to a draw against the Caerphilly Catapults. The event includes players and coaches from the 1999 team. Three current Cannons (Dexter Byrne, Hamish Naughtie, Graham Portendorfer) were part of that team. In addition to an exhibition match with the ’99 Cannons, fans in attendance will receive a special Naughtie bobblehead collectible. You won’t want to miss this exciting day!**

**end**

~*~

“What. A. Clusterfuck.”

Malfoy buried his face in his hands. From the whimpers, Harry thought he might be crying a little. _At least he’s not banging his head on the table,_ Harry thought. “Oh, come on. It wasn’t that bad.” 

Draco banged his head on the table several times, finally just resting his forehead on the scarred, wooden desk in their office. “Not that bad?” he said into his lap. “—Jasmine and I spent literally all night transfiguring uniforms to look like the ones the team wore. And for what? These—these athletes were so creaky they could barely get one leg over the broom.” 

He said _athletes_ as if it were an indictment of the old men. 

“Okay, that’s not true. Galvin Gudgeon looked good.”

Draco brushed his fringe out of his eyes and stared at Harry is if he were speaking Parseltongue. “Potter, did we watch the same debacle? That man’s broom barely got off the ground. From the look of it, it was probably the same broom from 20 years ago. We’re just lucky  
that we escaped this without a lawsuit.”

“You’re not being fair,” Harry said, ignoring the fact he’d thought the same thing. “The crowd loved it.”

“Crowd? We had stadium renovated to seat 20,000. We had maybe _maybe_ 200 people if we’re lucky and don’t count the tickets we gave away.”

Harry couldn’t argue with that. He’d given tickets to the Weasleys and their families. Every Quidditch writer he’d heard of and some that he’d never heard of and doubted were actually reporters. Every player was comped tickets for their extended families, which didn’t amount for much since they knew how bad the Cannons were. 

“I thought that was bad til I saw the receipt for the bobbleheads. They cost more than we made in ticket sales.

“But they were brillia—”

Malfoy raised his head and held his hand up; for a moment, Harry considered talking over Malfoy’s pause because they _were_ brilliant. George Weasley had done an incredible job making it look just like Hamish Naughtie, the 1999 team’s star Chaser. But in the past few days they’d worked together, Harry had learned some of Malfoy’s tells. For example, the angrier he got, the more Malfoy dragged his fingers through his hair. Right now, he’d never have known Malfoy’s hair had ever been gelled into place. It draped across his forehead, dipped in front of his eyeglasses. To Harry, it looked soft enough to touch, like if he cuddled up behind Malfoy, say, in bed or someplace, and buried his nose in Malfoy’s hair, it would tickle in the best way. 

But it also meant that Malfoy was a one bad joke away from snapping.

Malfoy had apparently continued talking as Harry thought about the nature of hair product. “But thank Merlin we had the old timers there and almost no one actually had a paid admission. Do you know why, Potter. Do you?”

Harry nodded and tried to frown. “Because when the Caerphilly Catapults saw the indoor stadium, they refused to take the field.” He bit his lips not to smile, not because that part had been great, because it hadn’t. But the 1999 Cannons. They were legendary to Cannons fans. Harry’d read tons of articles about them, and he’d met them, shook their hands, had his picture taken with them. _Maybe I’ll have the pictures framed and hang them on the wall over my desk—_

“Right. They didn’t play because they said the indoor stadium _violated the International Quidditch Association’s rules.”_ Malfoy air-quoted before hauling a pristine copy of the 2000 IQA rules to the center of the desk. “I went through this page by page after your cockamamie suggestion about indoor Quidditch.”

Harry thought that, if the manual had been thinner, Malfoy probably would have hurled it at him. “It’s not illegal,” he said, sounding more sure than he felt. 

“It’s _not_ illegal, but—” Malfoy pushed his hair back and then affected a ridiculously posh air. “It’s never been done that way before.”

“But the crowd—” When Malfoy glared at Harry, he retracted the word. “The people weren’t angry. The exhibition match between the 1999 team and our team was—”

“Brilliant. Yes I know.” Malfoy slammed the rules book shut. “I’m sure we’ll be getting an owl from the IQA office any moment now.” He checked the wall clock and said, “It’s been three hours since the end of the exhibition match, but it is Friday night. Maybe they’ll wait til Monday…”

“During the game—ok, ok, exhibition match—I walked around the stadium and listened,” Harry said, unburying a second desk chair from a mountain of left-over bobbleheads and dragging it to the desk next to Malfoy. He grabbed Malfoy’s shoulder and pulled him upright. “Everyone there loved it. They were warm and happy. And it turns out, warm, happy people buy food. Lots of food. And booze. A lot of booze.”

Harry held up the concession stands’ total sales and grinned. 

Malfoy stared at it. Closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened his eyes, he stared at the number again. “We sold that much in concessions?” 

Harry nodded. 

“That much?!”

Harry nodded again. 

“Merlin’s baby pants, that’s more than ticket sales!” Draco grinned and high-fived Harry. “We’re not horribly, horribly in debt any more.”

“Right!” Harry said, waving the paper like a flag. “Now we’re just horribly in debt.”

“Potter, you’re brilliant. I could kiss you!” Draco said, lurching forward to hug Harry for a second. 

If Draco realized what he’d said, he gave no notice, and Harry didn’t draw his attention to it. Maybe the next time he did something brilliant, Draco would say it again. 

“Since it’s Friday, and we probably won’t get an owl til Monday—” Harry hesitated and then spoke in a rush. “Maybe we could get something to eat. To celebrate.”

On cue, Draco’s stomach rumbled. “I didn’t eat today. I was too nervous,” he said, with a lopsided smile. 

“Well, it’s on me, then,” Harry said. Maybe if he pretended they’d never argued, Draco would go along with it. He stood up and pulled Draco to his feet. “I know a nice place near a skating rink. The food is good, but the service is slow. It will give me plenty of time to tell you my next idea.”

Draco’s groan was as loud as his stomach rumble had been. But Harry didn’t think he meant it.


	13. Dinner with a Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dinner with with Draco... with a side of banter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok, so. I know where this is going, but IDK how many chapters it's gonna take. I mean that the fest is long over, so I'm not constrained by photo images, you know? 
> 
> Also, not beta'd at all. straight from my brain to yours. and I'm so sorry about that. LOL

After he’d stalked out of the kitchen in what had not been one of his Shining Moments of Adulthood, he’d called Beatrix to see if she had time to meet with him. _That_ therapy session had been intense. She’d let him rant about That Twat who somehow had taken over _his_ business. And then That Twat had implied, _how fucking dare he??_ that he still wanted Ginny. Incredible. So fucking stupid. He’d done everything Malfoy had asked, had given in on every one of Malfoy’s stupid ideas. And then Malfoy attacked him like that. It was _ridiculous_ that he still wanted Ginny.

But, when Harry had run out of steam, could feel his anger in his clenched fists and flushed face drain away, Beatrix had begun asking questions. Tell me about the things Malfoy had asked for. About the stupid ideas Harry had conceded to. Each time she’d asked Harry to pull a thread, his story had unraveled a little more until he was left with his indignation over Malfoy’s implication that Harry still wanted Ginny. 

He didn’t. He really didn’t. _Can you talk a little about why you feel so angry about his question?_ she’d asked. 

Because he—we—soup and toast. Cleaning the office together. Malfoy laughing at his jokes, letting him do what he wanted without a fight. He’d thought they—hoped maybe—they were—

It wasn’t Ginny. It was stupid, fucking Malfoy who Harry wanted to be with. And a few times, Harry thought maybe Malfoy might feel the same way. But with his tantrum, he’d probably fucked that up. 

Dinner was a chance to start over.

~*~

They side-along apparated into an alley in Islington, and Harry enjoyed the warm press of Draco’s arm linked in his. When they landed, he wanted to hold on, not let Draco pull his arm away, but he couldn’t think of a way or a reason that made sense. 

They walked side by side on the snowy pavement to the small Muggle restaurant Harry chose. The owners had draped evergreen boughs over the large window and the doorway, and fairy lights twinkled along each divider in the glass. 

“It looks nice,” Draco said as they stood in front of the door, as if he were waiting for something. 

“Nice,” Harry echoed, too busy watching the snow fall around Draco, land on his shoulders and the tip of his pink nose.

“Are we going inside, Potter, or are we going to stand here and imagine that we’re eating?”

“Fuck off,” Harry said with a laugh and opened the door to let Draco through first.   
The restaurant was small, with too many tables and mismatched chairs crammed together. Instead of feeling claustrophobic, it felt cozy and welcoming, like a holiday at the Burrow where they were happy to draw up another chair or two. Maybe that’s why Harry liked this place for dinner. Besides, the spaghetti was good, and the prices were decent. 

Although it was well past lunch, more than half the tables were full. Judging by the packages and bags at their feet, many of the patrons had been Christmas shopping. Muggle holiday songs filtered through the diners’ chatter and the clink clank of utensils on plates. In the center of the tables, delicate vases held sprays of poinsettias and holly.

“Alright, Harry?” the waiter asked as they were seated. “Late for you, innit?” He looked from Draco to Harry, un-subtly waggling his eye brows before he left.

“That. What was that?”

With a shoulder shrug, Harry brushed off Draco’s question. 

“No, no. You can’t do that.” Draco leaned across the table, moving the vase out of the way. “Why did he do that?”

“I reckon he thinks we’re on a date,” Harry said, tucking his napkin on his lap. If he looked up, Draco would absolutely see the pink on his cheeks and there would be no way he could play it off as wind chill. 

“Well, that’s just st—It’s—oh.” Draco sat back and rearranged the silverware in front of him. “I guess I understand how he could think that.”

The couple at the next table gathered their shopping bags, and as the woman turned, her oversized purse slapped Draco flat in his face. Harry snorted, and with an _oofouch!_ Draco pushed the fake Chanel monstrosity out of the way. 

“What are you doing? Are you grabbing my purse? Are you stealing my purse?” the woman whirled around and confronted Draco, leaning threateningly over him. 

“I beg your—” Draco sputtered, touching his nose for blood. 

“Your bag almost hit him,” Harry said with a straight face. “He didn’t want anything to happen to it.”

The woman backed off, tucking it under her arm. “Good thing, too. These Chanels aren’t cheap you know.”

Draco watched her walk away and said, “That one was. It’s a crap knock off. Shame she doesn’t know.”

How the hell did he know that? But before Harry could ask, Draco waved him off. “Before you start with another one of your schemes—“

“I don’t have his schemes. I have well thought out plans,” Harry said, but Draco rolled his eyes.

“Before you start with one, I wanted to apologize. I was out of line when I asked about you and Weasley. I should have respected you enough to know better.”

Harry was stunned. He never expected Draco to apologize—to be honest, he wasn’t sure Draco knew how. “Thanks. I, er, I do know how to behave.”

Draco rolled his eyes again, but the waiter came to take their order. 

“I’m absolutely going to need a drink before you tell me this idea,” Draco said as he ordered from the server. “I’ll have a Beetle Berry Whisky, neat.” He eyed Harry, then said, “Make it a double.”

“Come on. It’s not that bad,” Harry began, but Draco cut him off. 

“You say that a lot,” Draco said with a raised eye brow. “Much too often for my comfort.”

Harry laughed. He felt giddy with the success of the day, even if it were a limited success. And he was here at dinner with Draco. A few days ago, he was furious with Draco for his questions about Ginny. About whether he could work with her professionally. But he’d thought— _assumed_ —Draco was asking for dirty details of their break up and if Harry still wanted her. Now, here they were comfortable with each other and joking. Almost like a date. 

“Alright. Let me hear it.” Draco crossed his arms over his chest. He was frowning, but Harry saw that he was having difficulty holding off his laughter. 

“No way. Not now,” Harry said as the waiter brought their drinks. “You’re just going to have to wait until after we eat.”


	14. Headmaster McGonagall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco meet with Headmaster McGonagall about their next special event: Chudley Cannons salute Hogwarts!
> 
> the prompt: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just to be clear--Harry is running this quidditch team as if it were a combination of every American sport he's known. I don't have a Brit Pick person, so I apologize in advance for all the Americanisms.

Harry drew Draco in to his side, pretended to ignore the warmth of his body, and against all of Draco’s “better judgement,” side-along apparated them to the secret site for the reveal of Harry’s next big idea.

“Hogsmeade?” Draco sputtered. “You made a colossal secret of going to Hogsmeade?”

Harry grinned. “Don’t be an idiot. C’mon!” He grabbed Draco’s wrist and dragged him up High Street, still not telling him where they were going. 

Fat snowflakes fell around them, but it didn’t seem to bother the holiday shoppers, who bustled in and out of the stores. He and Draco dodged the parcels and shopping bags just as they’d done in Islington. 

Harry thought he heard Draco humming along to the piped-in mix of wizard and Muggle carols, but when he looked over, Draco was silent. 

“Muggle songs, huh?” was all Harry asked.

“Mother never let Father know her penchant for Harrods. She and I would sneak down there once a season to browse. We’d spend the day looking for something to buy that she could pass off as a wizard item. And we’d treat ourselves to tea with the most incredible pastries.”

Harry looked over, and to him, Draco seemed wistful. Sad. Not his face, which showed no emotion, but his shoulders had dropped, and he’d shoved his hands a little deeper into his coat pockets. 

“We could do that, you know,” Harry said, tugging Draco’s arm until his hand pulled out of the pocket. “Go to Harrods. Wander around. Buy stuff we don’t need for our office. Have tea.”

Draco snorted, but his derision missed the mark and landed into something Harry thought sounded fond. “As if you would know how to comport yourself at tea in Harrods.”

“True,” Harry nodded with a smile. “Maybe I don’t know the right fork to use, but you’re not as posh as you pretend. You use words like _comport,_ but I heard you yelling _move your bloody fat arse!_ at the Old Timers today.”

Draco laughed, a good, rich belly laugh until he leaned against the edge of Travis & Boyle’s Harpischord Haven.

He looked young and beautiful, no worry lining his forehead, no cares etched on his face. Harry wanted to reach out and brush the snowflakes out of Draco’s hair, off his shoulders. Maybe kiss the one that landed on his cheek. These feelings he had—they were like when he’d learned to fly a broom. Soaring up, racing down, almost crashing but pulling up before disaster. 

All Harry knew at that moment was that he liked the soaring better than spiraling and wanted to share that feeling with Malfoy. Maybe it was the winter fairy tale scene with the snow and Christmas songs and Good Will, but maybe it was time. 

Draco’s laughter slowed to a few giggles. He wiped tears from his cheeks and pushed his fringe out of his eyes. “Merlin, I needed that!” he said clutching his stomach. 

In therapy, Beatrix said he needed to take chances, to step outside his comfort zone. Buying the Cannons had worked out okay, right? 

Harry stepped forward, close enough that Draco’s arms, still holding his sides, pressed against Harry. Close enough to smell Draco’s citrus shampoo. To see that his pale whiskers had grown.

“What are you doing?” Draco said on a breath. He slid his arms away from his waist and held them awkwardly as if he were unsure what to do with them. Maybe he wanted to inch Harry closer but wasn’t sure… Harry reached for Draco’s hand, slid his fingers between Draco’s. 

“I like you, Malfoy.” 

“I like you, too, Potter.”

For Harry, there was something about Draco’s eyes in the haloed lamplight, the snow flakes and the laughter still lingering at his lips…

“I mean, like-like—”

“So we’re 11 again?” Draco teased but Harry didn’t miss that his hand rested lightly on Harry’s back now. 

“Fuck you, Malfoy.” Harry nudged Draco until his back was pressed against the brick wall. “I can’t help it if I can’t think straight when I’m with you.”

“That would explain Old Timers’ night—” Draco whispered, his eyes flicking to Harry’s lips. 

Harry kissed him, slow and sweet, thought he felt Draco melt into him. Their fingers were still intertwined, and Harry had missed that Draco had drawn their hands to his chest. He broke off the kiss and waited for—something. 

Draco’s eyes blinked open slowly. “You like-like me?”

Harry laughed. “Not if you’re gonna be a dick about it.”

“You like me. You liiiiike me,” Draco sing-songed, and Harry kissed him again to shut him up. Draco deepened the kiss, and Harry followed, would follow him anywhere, would do anything to keep kissing Draco. 

“Do not,” Harry finally said, backing away enough to take Draco’s hand again. He felt electrified, warm to his core despite the temperature and the snow. “C’mon. We have an appointment at Hogwarts.”

Draco froze. “I can’t. I haven’t been to Hogwarts since—”

Harry waited and listened. Fear and sadness passed over Draco’s face, but he didn’t say anything else. 

“I go a lot. Neville teaches there, and sometimes, I have lunch with Professor McGonagall. She’s Headmaster now.” As he spoke, Harry quietly encouraged Draco to walk with him. He told Draco about the changes in policy at the school and increased security, some of which was Muggle. To Harry, Draco felt more at ease. His death grip loosened on Harry’s hand, and he asked questions about 

“They still have houses and sorting, but there’s a lot more interhouse cooperation. McGonagall even took away the House Cup.” Harry flicked his wand in a quick, _Tempus_ spell. “Shit. We’re late.”

They entered the campus, and Harry felt the magic of the wards ripple around him as they allowed them entrance to the grounds. 

Draco grasped his hand tighter as they passed through. “Wasn’t sure it would let me in.”

“McGonagall isn’t like that. Besides, she knows what happened.” Harry had made sure that she knew the ways Draco had protected him and the ways that he’d been a prisoner of war. “Trust me, it’s going to be okay.”

“The last time you said that, our office was full of bobbleheads.”

“Yeah,” Harry beamed. “Wasn’t it great?”

~*~

Professor McGonagall’s office was spare and tidy, no-nonsense and direct like her. There were no doilies and decorative cat plates blinking at them from the wall. No fascinating objects or funny noises. If it hadn’t been for the portraits on the wall, Harry would’ve thought he’d never been in the office before. 

Professor McGonagall pointed to two chairs opposite her desk. She poured tea for them and sat behind the massive, oak desk. “Tell me your scheme, Mr. Potter,” she said in her clipped Scottish accent. 

Harry sputtered. “It’s not a scheme.”

“It’s absolutely a scheme,” Draco nodded wisely to McGonagall. But Harry saw him struggling to hold back a smile. 

_Stupid lips._

“It’s the middle of winter,” Harry began, thinking quickly. “And you’ve a castle full of cold, bored teenagers doing Merlin only knows what on weekends in empty classrooms. Bring them to Saturday’s Chudley Cannons match against the Appleby Arrows. We'll call it Hogwarts Day."

“And, pray-tell Mr. Potter, why won’t they be cold and bored at the match?” Professor McGonagall sat back in her chair, sipping her tea and looking like she had caught Harry once again.

Draco put his hand against Harry’s chest to stop him from answering; when he spoke, Draco sounded like a cross between a proud, new father and a skilled salesman. He leaned toward the desk and any fear he’d had about returning to Hogwarts was gone. “Our facility has been recently renovated with comfortable seating and quality food choices. But the most exciting change we’ve made is that the pitch is entirely enclosed. While it may be freezing outside, it’s always a comfortable 22 degrees inside.”

McGonagall raised her eyebrows, and Harry thought she was almost impressed. “Tell me about that bit of magic.”

Draco preened, and Harry really shouldn’t have thought that was as hot as it was. “We couldn’t possibly,” Draco said. “That information is covered in our pending patent. Let’s just say that, no matter where the Snitch appears, the Seekers will have no trouble getting to it.”

McGonagall didn’t respond immediately; Harry thought she might actually be considering it. Snape appeared in his empty frame, alternating between glaring at Harry and pitying Draco. “Minerva, you can’t be considering this—"

“How much will this set me back?” she asked, ignoring Portrait Snape. 

Harry cut Draco off. “Our best offer is a buy one-get one free deal, Professor.” Draco squeaked, but Harry ignored him. “And that’s at the student price of 3 Galleons. Of course we’ll provide free tickets to your adult chaperones.”

“Potter!” Draco hissed in Harry’s ear. “You can’t do that. You might as well give them away.”

Harry turned to Draco and pinned him in place with a death stare. “Plus, it’s our t-shirt giveaway,” he said to McGonagall. 

Draco slumped in his chair and mumbled what Harry thought might have been _bankrupt_ over and over. 

“So 360 Galleons for an afternoon out for the students,” Harry said as he wrapped up the meeting. “And hours of silence for anyone who might stay at Hogwarts? Priceless.”

Snape groaned. 

Draco mumbled louder. 

McGonagall looked bright and the happiest Harry’d ever seen her. “Alright, Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy.” She shook Harry’s hand and smirked over her shoulder at Portrait Snape. “And if this scheme works, perhaps we can schedule something regularly.”

Draco’s head snapped up, and he stared at Harry.

Snape’s groan was muffled by his hands over his face.

They were almost out the door when Harry snapped his finger as if he’d just remembered something. “Professor, remind the students that there’s food for sale and souvenirs.”

~*~

“You absolute fucker,” Draco said, grabbing Harry as he walked down the stone steps from the office. He pushed Harry against the wall and crowded him. 

Harry’s heart raced. Draco pressed against him, and Merlin, Harry wanted this and everything else. 

“You fucking had a plan.” 

Harry nodded but hadn’t really heard the words over the sizzle snap as his brain went off line. Draco, pushing him against the wall, his face close enough that Harry could smell the chocolate of the biscuit. If he moved the tiniest bit…

“You _knew_ she’d eventually agree, and the profit is in the food and merchandise, not the tickets.

Harry grinned.

“You’re motherfucking brilliant, Potter.” And Draco kissed Harry, fast and filthy. No finesse and left no doubt what he was thinking. 

When Draco wedged his thigh in between Harry’s legs, it left no doubt what he was thinking, either. 

“Let’s go back to yours,” Draco said against Harry’s lips.

“Will you tell me how brilliant my scheme is?”

“In so many ways, Potter. So many ways.”


	15. A Man, A Plan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things lead to things in the Foyer. 
> 
> Brought to you very loosely by this photo of two half naked guys hugging (which you may or may not see, because Tumblr has decided it has adult content.)  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> shoot. sex is hard to write.  
> I'm still chugging along. Thank you for hanging with me.

Draco slammed the front door of Grimmauld Place shut, and the sound bounced off the foyer walls loud enough to make Harry jump. A puff of ginger fur yowled as it careened up the hall.

Draco crowded Harry against the door. His mouth is on Harry’s throat, not biting—yet. “What the fuck was that?” 

“Puck, my kneazle. Door slam scared her.” Harry slid his fingers through Draco’s hair, pulling it away from Draco’s face. Over the past week, Harry’d thought Draco’s eyes were the color of the ocean, angry and rough in winter; now, with his pupils wide, it seemed more like the sky before sunrise, beautiful and promising. 

Harry kissed him, deep and firm, more desperate now that they were alone. They kissed until Harry couldn’t breathe any more, didn’t want to breathe, didn’t want to stop. But they did. 

Draco dragged Harry’s orange Cannons t-shirt over his head and tossed it away. “Merlin, I love the clothes you wear.”

“You hate the clothes I wear. You say they’re rags and—” Harry shivered as Draco skated his fingers up and down Harry’s back, more nail than tip. It felt fucking brilliant, didn’t want him to stop—

“True.” Draco slid his hands into the elastic waist of Harry’s joggers. “But they don’t have buttons or zips.”

“Merlin, keep going,” Harry begged between kisses. Draco’s hands felt scorchingly hot on arse, and he imagined what they would feel like on his inner thigh or wrapped around his cock.

This. 

This wasn’t him. He was safe in his habits. He was comfort in the known. Breakfast at the same time in the same place. 

He wasn’t flirting and apparating a bloke back to Grimmauld Place. Wanting everything and willing to beg for it. 

But he _was,_ for Draco. With Draco. 

Draco guided Harry’s joggers and pants down his hips, careful not to catch Harry’s cock. He slid his finger over the slick tip, and Harry gasped. “Fuck yeah,” he said, needing Draco’s fingers, his hand, his mouth. Any of them. All of them. 

Draco exhaled, shaky and high pitched, and Harry kissed him fast and filthy now, tiny movements of his tongue that promised what he wanted to deliver. “Wanna taste you, swallow you. Make you come and—”

Draco pulled back, slowed them down. “We have all night—”

“And I’m gonna take care of you so many times,” Harry said, shutting down the last part of his brain that whispered doubts to him. He pictured Draco naked under him, preferably on his bed. 

“Christ, Harry, what did you do?”  


Draco stood naked, pressed against Harry. “Was that fucking wandless magic?” Draco asked, staring at the pile of clothes on the floor.

Harry didn’t know. He’d never—he didn’t know how—

“Because that is the hottest, fucking thing I’ve ever seen.”

Harry grabbed Draco’s hand to pull him upstairs to his bedroom; he fell forward, arms windmilling, headed face first to the floor. Draco snagged him, wrapping his arms around Harry’s waist before he tumbled to the floor.

“Probably want to—” Draco smirked as he waggled his finger at the joggers still at Harry’s ankles.

“I’m an idiot.” Embarrassment colored Harry’s face. He was so stupid, killing any chances he had of this going further. His erection flagged, not that it mattered.

Draco stepped away, grabbed his wand from his trousers and with a swoop and a few mumbled words, Harry’s joggers and trainers were gone. “Now. I believe you had a plan.”

“You—still want to—” 

“Potter, if I waited for you not to be an idiot to have sex with you, we’d never have sex,” Draco laughed, and it shouldn’t have been hot. The dimple in his left cheek, the soft curve of his lips. The ease with his own naked body as he moved back to Harry. 

For Harry, everything narrows to this: the two of them kissing in the foyer of Grimmauld Place, Draco’s hand warm and firm on his jaw, the other tangling in the too-long hair at the nape of his neck. The press of Draco’s cock on Harry’s thigh as they rock together.

There’s only this. 

Not the Chudley Cannons.

Not a mostly-empty stadium. 

Not “Oh, Merlin, what have we done.”

Just the growing need and desire between the two of them. 

Harry changed the angle of his hips, and Draco gasped against Harry’s lips. “Fuck, don’t do that again.” He felt a shiver run through Draco. “Because I’ll come.”

Harry nudged his hips again, kissed Draco deeper, more intense, grabbed his arse and pulled him closer. 

“I swear to God, Harry—”

Harry dropped to his knees. “Can I?” 

“You want to?” Draco laid his hand on Harry’s head and twisted a curl around his finger.  
Harry leaned into Draco’s touch. “I want to. And I like to. I just haven’t done it in a bit, so I may be a bit rusty—”

He formed a tight circle with his lips and held his breath as Draco pushed through, slowly, slowly. If Harry hadn’t been fully hard, his cock lying heavy against his thigh, the sweet, graveled sound Draco made would have done it. 

Draco tried not to move, but Harry felt his legs shake as if not moving took everything he had. Harry hollowed his cheeks as he backed off Draco’s cock with a slick pop. “S’alright if you move. If it’s too much, I’ll let you know.”

Harry closed his eyes, took as much of Draco into his mouth as he could. He loved the stretch at the corners of his lips, the weight on his tongue, the tang as he flicked the tip of his tongue over Draco’s slit. 

Draco rolled his hips, hesitantly at first, then more insistently as he raced toward his orgasm. He stumbled over a warning, pulled at Harry’s hair, but Harry’d known from the beginning he wanted to taste every bit of Draco. He squeezed Draco’s ass harder, pulled Draco so close that he had no choice but to come in Harry’s mouth.

“Fuck, I—give me a minute. I’ll—” Draco gasped, his head tipping back to rest against the wall. 

Harry swallowed as he pulled off. He couldn’t talk, didn’t want to alter the image in his mind of Draco coming apart, moaning his name as he fucked Harry’s mouth. He wrapped his fingers around his dick that was already painfully hard. He fucked his fist, rough and fast, until he came with a _Draco._ His voice sounded too loving, too fond, like he’d maybe given too much information away.

But kneeling on the hard foyer tile, with a December wind whipping outside the door, he couldn’t find it in himself to care. 

“Harry?”

He didn’t know what Draco was going to say. Probably something caustic about the blow job or Grimmauld Place. Harry looked up at him, but Draco’s eyes were still closed, and a smile pulled at one side of his mouth.

“Is it okay if I ask you to take me to bed?”

Draco bit his lip, and to Harry, it seemed like he was almost afraid of the answer.

Harry stood, his knees creakier than he liked, and he kissed Draco softly. “More than okay.”

He took Draco’s hand and led him up the stairs toward his bedroom.

Harry stopped short. “Hey. The Catapults forfeited! We’re 1-0!” And he kissed Draco to celebrate.


	16. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry wakes up alone. 
> 
> TW: therapy session about being alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brought to you loosely by this picture: 
> 
> According to my outline, there should be 23 chapters. <3

Harry woke slowly, feeling peaceful and happy in a way he hadn’t been since Hogwarts. He stretched and reached to the other side of the bed, wanting to touch Draco again. 

The sheets were cool, except for Puck, who’d stretched out where Draco should have been. 

No water running in the loo. No noise from the hallway. 

No noise from anywhere in the house. 

“Well, fuck,” Harry said, scratching Puck’s stomach and getting scratched in return with a loud _mreowww._ “What did I do wrong, Puck? I kind of thought we had a good time.”

Harry replayed their night together as he showered, tried to figure out what he’d done or hadn’t done as he shaved and dressed. 

“I don’t know, Puck,” he said, picking her up and burning his face into her furry neck. He didn’t care about getting fur on his polo shirt or jeans. “I thought we were okay, but—” 

Harry shrugged and carefully laid Puck onto the bed, but she was up and out of the room before her feet hit the bed. He looked at the jumble of sheets and blankets for another moment and allowed himself to feel the emptiness of the bed.

“Alright,” he said to the empty room as he made the bed, brushing away the wrinkles in the linen. “Time for scrambled eggs on toast and a bowl of porridge with bananas and chocolate chips, hold the bananas.”

He grabbed his wand from the nightstand and pretended that he wasn’t hoping Draco would be in the lounge reading Harry’s _Daily Prophet_ and making a mess of the paper. Or in the kitchen frying up breakfast for them. 

But the house was silent, save Puck who was attacking her plush bunny as if their lives hung in the balance. 

“Just because he didn’t stay over doesn’t mean anything,” Harry said as he closed the front door behind him and headed to the Muggle coffeehouse. “Plenty of people sneak out after—sex.”

But he’d thought it had been more than a hook up. He’d thought—

“The usual, love?” the server asked as Harry seated himself at his usual table in the windowed alcove. He filled the mug with rich, aromatic coffee and studied Harry. “You’re not you today, Harry.”

“Yeah.” Harry nodded with a tired smile. “But I’ll be alright. I always am.”

The waiter placed his warm hand over Harry’s on the table. “If you need someone to talk to—” 

Harry tried harder with his smile and nodded his thanks. When the waiter left, Harry searched his pockets for his phone, praying it had some battery left. Beatrix could help him sort this out. 

~*~

“Stop apologizing for the short notice,” Beatrix said as she settled in her oversized arm chair. She pulled her legs up under her and balanced Harry’s folder on the arm of the chair. “Saturdays are for wizards and paperwork, and I’m always happy to put off paperwork! What’s up?”

Harry squirmed on the couch, too cold without the blanket, too hot once he’d wrapped himself in it. It was so stupid to be here, when people had real problems. _He_ had real problems. This was just Malfoy swanning off.

“Congratulations, by the way!” she said, grinning. “The Cannons’ first win in 20 years!”

“It was incredible! The Catapults were like—” and Harry was off, lost in Quidditch and the Cannons. His shoulders loosened, dropped back to their normal place; he relaxed his jaw and neck muscles, and when it came to the end of the night, he could talk about Malfoy.

“I don’t know why he didn’t stay,” Harry said, knowing he sounded like a love-sick teenager. 

“Did you ask him?” When Harry stared at her blankly, Beatrix asked him again. “Did you ask Draco why he left?”

She sat back and waited for his response. 

He _hated_ when she did that. 

When she sat there all quiet and non-judgmental, waiting for him to realize for himself that he was an idiot. Not that she’d ever admit that, the bitch. 

This love/hate relationship he had with a woman who was old enough to be his grandmother. _It’ll kill me one day,_ Harry thought, rolling his eyes. 

“No, because I was too busy feeling bad for myself.” 

“Where do you think he is right now?” Beatrix checked her phone for the time. “Noon on a Saturday?”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno. I guess an owl could find him, though.”

In her cage on Beatrix’s book case, her Little owl pulled her head from under her wing and hooted. Harry liked Athene, her tiny body and her bright yellow eyes.

“Would you want to try to find him? Athene is good at that.” She waited a moment and added, “What would you say to him if he were here.”

Athene was forgotten as Harry worked through the night before, what it meant to him and how he felt waking up alone. 

“I guess I _should_ ask him,” Harry admitted, folding the blanket and draping it over the back of the couch. “It’s just easier to be angry.”

“That’s true. But work, which you really loved when you told me about it last week, is really going to suck, Harry, if you let this lie. But only you can say whether Malfoy is safe to have this conversation with, if he’ll be open to a discussion.”

Harry nodded, unconvinced. He hugged Beatrix, gave Athene a treat to nibble, and disapparated.

~*~

Harry pushed the scratched-up parchments off to the side of the kitchen table. He really wanted to fling them, to crumble each one up and throw them at something. Someone. How the hell do you say _Why the fuck did you fuck me and then fuck off_ politely?

He’d been at this long enough for his coffee to go cold and for Puck to give up on getting part of Harry’s sandwich. Harry nudged her with his socked toes. “Tell me what to say.”

Puck rolled onto her back, showed Harry her belly, and then clawed him when he tried to rub her stomach. “You could have just said you didn’t want to help,” Harry complained as he rummaged through the cabinets for the last of his Dittany.

He applied the salve, wished he could put some on his emotions, decided the entire letter writing could also fuck off, and left for the stadium. He needed to finish the Hogwarts t-shirt design and doing something would be better than agonizing over whether he should _do something._

~*~

Harry pulled his coat tighter and cursed himself for forgetting his gloves. It was a short walk from the apparation point to the stadium, but the sharp, cold wind bit into him. In front of him, the stadium was silent and stately, with its new paint and renovations. The garish orange was replaced by a dignified white; the only orange on the exterior was in what Harry thought were tasteful accents, like the logo. The ticket booths had been reconstructed, including heating and cooling charms to go along with the rest of the stadium. 

Harry headed toward the admin building. With his wand, he tapped the door to unlock it and relocked it as he closed it behind him. The extension charm on the stadium was his favorite of all the renovations, except for this foyer. He and Draco had teamed up with every scrubbing charm they knew; they’d removed every trace of orchids and scoured the floors and walls until they gleamed. Draco had eyed the Christmas tree, decided it wasn’t elegant enough, and transformed it until it grazed the ceiling. They’d hung fairy lights along the edge of the reception desk, draped them over the tree boughs, and in a rare display of Cannon pride, Draco had transfigured all the red sequined heart ornaments into cannons. 

This was a tribute to what they could do together. 

“Fuck it,” Harry said as he followed the hallway to his office. “It’s enough that we’re partners.”

“Of course we’re partners, Potter. Or did you forget that?”

Draco’s voice drifted into the hallway, and Harry’s stomach dropped. This was supposed to be a working afternoon, not a sit and argue afternoon.  
Harry ignored Malfoy’s question and sat at his desk, rifling through the stack of papers that Jasmine dropped there before yesterday’s game. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Draco watching him, opening and then closing his mouth without Malfoy actually saying anything. 

“Hey,” Malfoy said eventually. “I—uh—um—I hope you weren’t angry that I left last night.”

“Snuck out.”

“Ok, I guess I deserve that,” Malfoy said, not addressing Harry’s glare. “I just—uh—have this policy about not sleeping over after—you know.”

Harry’s anger flashed, but he bit back the ugly. “Do you mean after sex? A booty call? A casual hook up? If we’re old enough to do it, we’re probably old enough to be able to _say it.”_

Malfoy’s cheeks flushed, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he walked to Harry’s desk and perched on the corner. He dropped his head back and sighed; Harry couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think with Draco that close, could only remember the feel of Draco’s skin on his lips, his cock heavy on Harry’s tongue. 

At that moment, Harry knew he couldn’t do this. Couldn’t do booty call, hook up. Couldn’t do casual. And had no idea how he could be business partners with someone he wanted so much. He looked away, anywhere but the slender, elegant line of Draco’s neck. Harry pulled at the papers under Draco’s arse, gave up, grabbed a new pad from the desk drawer, and—

“Look. I’m sorry. I should have told you I never sleep over anywhere. It’s too intimate, too much like a—”

“I get it,” Harry said, pushing the desk forward as he stood up abruptly. “It won’t happen again.”

Malfoy almost tipped off the desk. 

Later, he could think about what he could have done better. Which tool in his tool belt he could’ve used to act instead of react. How, embarrassed and hurt, he’d forgotten what Beatrix had taught him about taking back his power.

Malfoy righted himself. “Harry, I meant—” 

He may have said something else as Harry disapparated back to the safety of Grimmauld Place, but Harry didn’t wait long enough to find out.


	17. Sixten, again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When other teams lodge official complaints against the Cannons for their unorthodox pitch, they're called to defend themselves. 
> 
> Based loosely on this prompt: 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> still chugging along....
> 
> (also, i mistakenly wrote Dept of Magical Games and Sports instead of International Quidditch Asso, which I'd said in an earlier chapter. so that's edited for continuity)

Turns out, with his owl and a few office supplies, Harry had no actual reason to go to ~~their~~ his office. 

He sat at his kitchen table (ignoring that Draco had sat in _that_ chair at dinner) and sketched out a design for the Hogwarts Night t-shirt. Kreacher hovered, pacing between the stove and Harry’s elbow, grumbling that Harry was in his way, making a mess, had chased off the One True Master. 

“I didn’t chase him off—” Harry began, but Kreacher only moaned louder, switching to his misfortunes in life.

“Don’t complain about cooking me lunch,” Harry replied, giving up on t-shirt design for the Hogwarts Night. He had a week before that match; it would get done. “You’re the one who said, _Kreacher is a good elf even if the worm is a bad master, so Kreacher must cook.”_

Kreacher was unimpressed with Harry’s impersonation, with the squeaky yet still graveled voice, and turned back to the stove. Harry was fairly certain Kreacher called him a worm, a miscreant, a Magdalen, and a dandiprat, which had to be record for the number of slurs he’d jammed into one sentence.

Puck jumped onto the table, sat on the parchment pile, and demanded Harry’s attention, gently headbutting Harry’s chin until Harry petted her. He scooped her up off his drawings and realized he hadn’t drawn anything like a logo. Instead, he’d sketched Draco from Hogwarts, lonely, defeated, the fine line of his neck exposed where he’d unbuttoned his collar and tugged his tie aside. 

Harry buried his face in Puck’s neck and allowed himself to feel the emptiness, the loneliness he’d pushed away that morning. “I’ve fucked this up pretty good, Puck. I don’t know. He had his reasons, and I could’ve listened.”

The Floo roared to life; Harry scrambled out of his chair as Puck pushed herself from his arms. The pain from her claws raking across his bare arm would register later—right now, Harry needed to figure out who was accessing his Floo. Only Ron and Hermione were cleared through his wards, and they were on holiday. 

Malfoy.

Of course. He’d been in Grimmauld Place. The wards recognized him. 

Draco stood in Harry’s lounge, clothes rumpled and his fringe hanging in his eyes. He looked wrong, the opposite of cool and collected that Harry had come to expect. 

“You know, it’s really rude to—” Harry crossed his arms over his chest so he wouldn’t reach out to wipe the smudge of soot from Draco’s cheek. 

“We have a meeting at the International Quidditch Association in 15 minutes,” Draco interrupted. “They’re saying our indoor stadium violates league rules. Get some clothes on.”

Harry couldn’t process any of it. Not Malfoy, not his words. 

“Now!” Malfoy pointed up the stairs. “Clean clothes and modest robes. Let’s. _Go.”_ He clapped his hands, and Harry did as he was told. 

The ruling board was going to decide that his innovations were illegal. The time and money he and Draco had poured in so far—the BIQL wasn’t going to take that away from them.

~*~

The waiting room was silent. No ticking clock, no faint voices from behind the thick, closed doors. Only the sound of Malfoy on the bench next to him, breathing out in slow, regulated exhales. Harry watched him out of the corner of his eye; Malfoy had tidied up, used steaming charms on the wrinkles in his clothes and combed his hair. He looked calm, unbothered, but Harry knew enough about anxiety relief techniques, and the way Malfoy was breathing was one of Harry’s favorites when he was stressed. 

For a second, he wished he hadn’t agreed to buy the Cannons. That he was back in the safety of his routines, at the café or at Grimmauld Place, where his biggest concern was whether he should stick with his decaf or if he should be adventurous and try one of the flavored coffees (he never did). If Kreacher would serve warm, crusty rolls with the soup or if it would be a pack of Saltines. 

Not whether he’d have to work with someone who maybe cared for him—or not. Who wanted to hook up with him—or not. Who’d go bankrupt with him—or not.

“You’re thinking too loud.” Draco pressed his hand to Harry’s thigh to stop the jiggling. 

“I’m not. I’m just—I mean, earlier today I shouldn’t have—”

The Floo’s flames surged emerald green, and Sixten Lundberg emerged, impressive in his bespoke black robes that should have looked drab and instead made him look stately and elegant. And unfairly hot.

Harry still hated him. 

“Thanks for coming on short notice.” Draco jumped up from the bench and gave him a quick hug and a back pat. 

Harry rolled his eyes. _Right. Our lawyer,_ he thought. He leaned forward and rested his head in his hands; the pain of his elbows digging in to his thighs wasn’t as bad as watching Malfoy drape himself over his boyfriend. 

“Potter!” Draco said, his voice sharp and angry. His hands were balled into shaking fists. “Sixten’s here to help us, and you can’t pull your head out of your arse long enough to say hello?”

 _Oh, shut the fuck up,_ Harry fought not to say. Instead of answering, he waved to Sixten and plastered on a fake smile. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Draco hissed, close enough to Harry’s ear that Sixten couldn’t hear.  
Harry flipped him off. “Just go talk to your boyfriend so he can save the world.” He fell back against the wall and looked away from Malfoy.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Potter. Only you could turn this into some god damn love triangle. Sixten’s not—”

The Rules Committee chairperson opened the door to the meeting room and motioned them inside. Draco stormed into the chamber, and Harry followed with Sixten, who looked as confused as Harry felt. 

The committee members greeted Sixten warmly with backslaps and _Remember when_ s before turning to Harry. They spoke deferentially to The Saviour of the Wizarding World, like they wanted to bow to him or kiss a ring. Harry despised it, hated when people made a big deal over something that was over and done. He liked that about Malfoy—he treated Harry like a person not some—overblown myth. Malfoy never hesitated to shoot him down, laugh at him, tell him he was wrong. It was kind of refreshing, now that Harry thought about it.

Where was Malfoy? Harry scanned the chamber several times before barely noticing him standing, his shoulders flat against the back wall. 

When the committee members turned back to Sixten, Harry ducked out of their circle. “Did you use a _Notice Me Not_ charm?” Harry asked, leaning against the wall next to Malfoy. 

Malfoy whispered _Finite_ and shimmered back to his full self. “How did you see me?”

Harry shrugged. He felt stupid admitting he always knew where Malfoy was. “Why’re you back here hiding?”

Draco shook his head. “Do you really not get it? He’s the famous Sixten Lundberg, saviour of Quidditch. You’re—you. The Great Harry Potter. And I’m a Malfoy.”

Draco paused as if what he’d said were self-evident, that Harry would connect the dots. “What does that even mean? You’re a Malfoy? You’re brilliant. You have this great business sense. Most of this was your idea and—” Harry’s frustration welled up, and he shoved his hands into his pockets so he wouldn’t do something stupid like hug Malfoy.

Draco looked over his shoulder to make sure they couldn’t be overheard. “I’ve spent the last 10 years trying to clean the shit stains off my family name for the fucked up things my father did. Just me being here jeopardizes our chances.”

Draco’s voice cracked, and Harry felt helpless because Draco was right. Even now, names like Goyle, Crabbe, Parkinson, and Malfoy hung like weights on their shoulders. They were whispered if said at all, and always said with distaste in the same way people spoke of sexually transmitted diseases or magical injuries.

The chair rapped her gavel to call them to order. Draco hung back, and Harry left him against the back wall, watched as Draco faded away again. He made his way to their table facing the committee members. The five of them sat behind the curved dais desk located on a raised platform. 

“Making sure we know who’s in charge?” Harry asked, nodding toward the seating in front of them. 

Sixten sighed. “You probably won’t be called to speak, but if you are, remember: be obsequious, but not too obsequious. Be straight forward and answer their questions, but not too forward—”

Harry laughed quietly. “Yeah, I see how it is. They’re in charge.”

The committee secretary laid out the complaint against them: that they’d violated every Quidditch rule by taking the game indoor, and that the other teams in the BIQL had brought their complaints forward and were asking for the Cannon’s new stadium to be declared illegal.

“Mr. Lundgren, you have five minutes for your presentation. Any questions we have will be after your allotted time.” 

Sixten nodded as he listened, sorting the parchments in front of him before standing. The chair tapped the hourglass with her wand, and Sixten began speaking without looking at the paperwork. 

“Madam Chairperson and honorable committee members: In 1674, when the British and Irish Quidditch League began, most of us who play would have been poor farmers taking a moment away from our crops, from the worry of feeding our families. We would have flown carefully, well out of the view of Muggles because being burned alive or being drowned was a legitimate fear for witches and wizards. 

“No one could have foreseen a time when we didn’t ache from each day’s toil, didn’t fall into bed at dusk to wake at dawn and begin again. I can’t imagine what they would think of us in the 21st Century, with our temperature-controlled offices and our portkeys and our take away meals.”

Harry scanned the committee members, watched their response to Sixten’s eloquent words. Several nodded in agreement, which Harry thought was a good sign. He watched Sixten as he spoke; he seemed at ease in front of the committee in a way that Harry never would be. Harry would be shuffling, mumbling, avoiding eye contact, or he’d spend too much time with his back to someone. Sixten was a natural with a confident voice that invited people to agree with him. 

Harry didn’t actually hate Sixten. He knew that when Sixten’s attention focused on him, he felt empowered, like he could do anything. Harry’d never met anyone with charisma like that; he wondered how each committee member felt as Sixten paused to allow his words to register before beginning again. 

“It’s snowing outside, but we are warm and dry in the council chambers. Each of us knows it wasn’t always so. Even with magic, we could have only kept the cold at bay for so long. I’m sure we all remember what this building, the Ministry of Magic, was like before the renovation a few years ago, with the faulty charms and the damp seeping into the wood structure.

 _“It’s always been played outside. We shouldn’t change it._ people say. I don’t know about you, but I thank Merlin each morning, as magic lights my warm flat, not with open flames but with modified lamp bulbs. That my breakfast cooks on a converted hob and not over the fireplace. And that, if I’m asked to join a team up in the Scottish Highlands, I can use a portkey instead of a long, frigid ride on a broom or carpet. 

“And how many of us have queued to see the popular play, _The Cursed Child,_ about the Muggle President John F. Kennedy and his son JFK, Junior, who could never quite live up to his father’s name? In its Greco-Roman roots, theater was performed outdoors in amphitheaters, but sensibly moved inside. We celebrate that with record-breaking attendance, which means profit for both the owners and athletes.

“In the beginning, Quidditch mirrored the struggles our ancestors faced each day: fighting for their crops, for their safety, for their very lives against invaders who wanted them dead. Fighting to find something important to them, no matter how small and fleeting. But times have changed. Quidditch has changed. Our grandfathers’ game plan of out-muscling opponents and bullying your way to a win has been replaced by agile, highly skilled women and men using brooms outfitted with the newest technology, and coaching strategies designed to use our multi-million Galleon athletes to their fullest.

“My clients can assure you that their indoor pitch does not affect the game at all. I’m not at liberty to divulge the spells that were used in the renovation due to proprietary rights; I can tell you that no matter where they fly, the building will accommodate their destination. 

“I love Quidditch, but I hate to be frozen to the point I can barely draw a breath as I cheer on my team. As a former Seeker, I have played in raging blizzards, torrential downpours, lightning so close it singed my hair. We put our athletes and our attendees in very real danger. It’s time for us to protect our investments and allow my clients to continue using their indoor Quidditch pitch. 

“Thank you for your time.”

Sixten sat down without looking at Harry, but under the table, he squeezed Harry’s thigh in support. 

They waited for questions as the five committee members conferred quietly. 

“I suspect we’ll have an answer later today,” Sixten whispered to Harry. “Could be a few days, but your next match is Saturday—they need to decide before then.”

The chair stood and rapped her gavel once. “At this time, we have no questions. You may expect our decision via owl within the next 7 days, but no later than Saturday noon.” They filed out of the room, arguing softly amongst themselves.

Harry folded his arms on the table and hid his face in them. _They can’t_ —his stomach burned from fear that _this_ would be taken away from him. He’d lived more in the past week and a half than he had in ten years. He’d woken with a purpose, cleaned-scrubbed-painted on a mission to meet their re-opening, and he’d fallen in love. Earlier he’d wished Ginny had never asked him to buy the Cannons. That had been a big, fat lie. 

A hand rubbed his back, warm and caring, and Harry assumed it was Sixten, but when he raised his head, he saw Sixten in front of him, his arms filled with parchments. 

_Draco._

The _Notice Me Not_ was gone, and Draco patted his shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s go to the Leaky. I need a drink.”

Sixten shook his head. “Can’t. Sanna’s sick. I told her I’d only be gone a few hours.” He shrugged and said, “Hopefully Linnea took her nap today. If I hear something, I’ll be in touch.”

He waved and was gone before Harry could ask who and what.

“His wife and their daughter,” Draco answered without being asked, and he sounded damn smug. “Been together since they were teenagers. Madly in love.” 

“But—” 

Draco rolled his eyes. “It is possible for two men to be mates, Potter. Even if one is gay and the other straight. You could have just asked instead of assuming.”

Heat rose up Harry’s cheeks, and he thought about stealing the _Notice Me Not_ spell. 

Draco took Sixten’s chair and nudged Harry to turn to him. Slowly, carefully telegraphing his intention, Draco places a gentle hand on Harry’s cheek. His gaze is soft and caring, and Harry’s heart barrel rolls in his chest. “Like this morning. You didn’t let me finish. You’ve got to let me finish.”

Harry barely breathes, afraid to break the moment, afraid Draco might stop mid-sentence and change his mind. 

“I don’t usually sleep over because it’s too much like a proper relationship. But when I got home, I knew I’d fucked up, because all I wanted was to be back with you.” Draco’s lips brushed Harry’s forehead. “If I haven’t done irreparable damage, could we try again?”

“Mr. Potter?” One of the committee members whose name Harry hadn’t caught interrupted them. “Avery asked me to give you this if you were still here.”

He handed Harry a sealed envelope and scurried away.

“A decision? Already?” Draco stared as if he were afraid to touch it.

Merlin, he hadn’t experienced so many highs and lows since the war, but Harry knew this: if he could live through the chaos of the past 24 hours, he could do anything. He pried open the seal with his thumbnail and withdrew the paper.

“The Quidditch subcommittee of the International Quidditch Association finds in favor of the Chudley Cannons—” 

Harry didn’t finish reading. He dropped the paper and cradled Draco’s face. There was nothing booty-call or casual about his kiss or Draco’s response. 

“Let’s go home,” Harry said, tugging Draco up from his chair. 

Draco snatched the notice from the floor. “We can owl this to Sixten when we get there, so he knows.”

Harry’s face dropped. Draco laughed and brushed a curl off Harry’s forehead. “He needs to know, and I don’t want an owl interrupting us.”  
“That’s brilliant,” Harry said and kissed Draco again.

Draco broke the kiss and leaned back enough to look into Harry’s eyes. “I was thinking—I could stay tonight, if it’s okay with you?”

Harry’s grin said it all.


	18. In Between Love and Trying to Scheme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brought to you very VERY loosely by this photo: 
> 
> If Tumblr flags it, the pic is of a naked man with his hand strategically placed, and he's draped in multicolor fairy lights. I'm calling them PRIDE lights. 
> 
> Attendance keeps rising as word gets out that the Cannons are vastly improved and that they host fun, innovative events. And they're 3-0.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It still says 25 total chapters, but I am thinking maybe only 2 more. and THANK YOU for your lovely words. You have no idea how they buoyed me when the words wouldn't come.
> 
> The title is a line from a Tom Waits song called "In Between"

“Is it my imagination or are more people here tonight? Like, more than just the Hogwarts kids.”

Draco leaned against the railing on the concourse, watching the stands fill. Harry stood next to him, their sides pressed together and tried to focus on the patches of orange in the stands. But he could only think about Draco—the places their bodies touched now and had touched all week. That Draco was warm when he slept, and when Harry curled up behind him to leech some of his heat, he had to be careful not to tickle Draco. 

A sharp elbow in his ribs brought Harry back. 

“The orange t-shirts make it pretty noticeable,” Harry agreed. “I think you’re right.” And that didn’t include the kids roaming the food court and merchandise areas.

The Cannons took the pitch for their pre-match warm up, and the crowd cheered when they realized the Cannons wore their Hogwarts House Quidditch robes . Some stretched on the pitch while others, including Ginny and Blaise, were on brooms tossing the Quaffle back and forth. 

_Fuck!_

“Why aren’t the Arrows on the pitch? Why aren’t they warming up?” Draco’s voice rose with a squeak.

“Fuck—fuckfuck—are they protesting?” Harry had too many thoughts racing in his head, vying for most important. “Ok, look. You go talk to someone with Appleby. Figure out what’s going on. I have an idea.”

Harry took the stairs to pitch level two at a time and waved over the coach. The team captain and two alternate captains followed him. Harry pointed to the empty end of the pitch. “I think the Arrows are going to protest even though the IQL ruled in our favor. But I have an idea—” 

~*~

“You were right.” Draco found Harry on the pitch, watching the Cannons file off into their renovated dressing room. “They’re protesting. I reminded them that a forfeit is the same as a loss. I sure as hell hope you have an idea; otherwise, we have to give everyone refunds.”

Harry grinned and with a tap of his wand, transfigured Draco’s business robes into Slytherin Quidditch robes. 

“What the—Is this another one of your schemes?”

“Coach agreed that, once the forfeit is official, the team play an exhibition match against Hogwarts, with special guest, former Slytherin Draco Malfoy as Seeker.”

“Potter, don’t be ridiculous. I haven’t played—” 

“The kids are going to love it, and the media will run with it. You’ll be right there, free advertising in every article they’ll write!” Harry pressed his lips together, working to hold his smile back. 

“What about you?” Draco sputtered, pointing his wand at Harry’s bright orange Cannons t-shirt and jeans. “You’re playing, too.”

“Not today,” Harry said. “Someone has to oversee our investment.” He waved his hand behind him in the general direction of the food and merch stands. 

Harry pushed him toward the Hogwarts team, and his heart didn’t skip a beat when Draco flipped him off. 

~*~

Harry stood next to Draco’s desk, tapping his foot as if that would make Draco add faster. He held the ledger with the total receipts for food and merch. 

Draco, still in his Slytherin uniform, looked hotter than he had a right to in Harry’s opinion, was still compiling the ticket sales numbers. Draco swiped his quill against his forehead as he concentrated, and Harry wasn’t sure whether he’d tell him about the fine streaks of black ink that now lined Draco’s forehead.

“Still horribly, horribly in debt?” Harry asked once Draco picked up the paper.

Draco rattled the paper in Harry’s face. “No! Sales definitely jumped from last week!”

Harry calmly handed his tally to Draco, whose eyes grew wide as he processed the numbers. 

“Compared to last week, is that—” 

“Yep!”

“Up? That’s higher than last week and last week was—”

Harry nodded proudly. “Merch and food are making a fuck-tonne of money. We sold so many Authentic Cannons shirseys tonight, which is great for the bottom line, but think of the free advertising? All those people walking around wearing our shirts…”

“Potter, you fucking genius.” Draco scraped his chair back and lunged at Harry, wrestling him until Harry was lying on Draco’s desk. 

Harry only pretended to put up a fight. 

~*~

The next morning, Harry woke to the tap tap tap of an owl at his window. He nudged Draco to roll over so he could slip out of bed. The great barn owl hopped on the windowsill, one foot to the other as if it were too cold to stay in one place for long. “Sorry, mate.” Harry shivered as he traded the message for an owl nut. “Off you go.”

“Waasss i’ say?” Draco rolled back over when Harry got back in bed and pressed his face into Harry’s bare side. “In trouble again?”

Harry pulled the covers up and put on his glasses. “Mr. Potter and Mr. Malfoy—” Harry read out loud. “It’s from Professor McGonagall. Thank you for the peace and solitude that last night’s outing afforded those of us who remained behind. It was well worth the price. I would be more than happy to continue the arrangement. With thanks. _Nota Bene: I see through your scheme, Mr. Potter. I’ve never seen quite so many orange shirts.”_

When he blinked, Draco’s eyelashes tickled Harry. It was sweet, intimate in a way Harry’d never experienced before. Maybe, in the morning, he’d take Draco to breakfast at the coffee shop. “Ev’n ‘Gonagall’son t’you.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Harry said fondly, storing his glasses and McGonagall’s note on the nightstand before snuggling up behind Draco. 

“Alone or with you?”

“Oh, definitely with me.”

“See, Potter? _This_ scheme I like.”

~*~

“How are you spending Christmas?” Harry asked as casually as he could one day when Draco was busy crunching numbers or whatever he did when he worked at his desk. Their office was overrun with stacks of rainbow scarves on every flat surface; this would be their best giveaway yet. Pride scarves for their match against The Pride of Portree. Before the match, they were celebrating the LGBTQIAA+ athletes who'd challenged the league and made it safe for everyone to play Quidditch. 

Draco ignored his question. “These scarves are worse than the orchids,” he said, propping up a teetering pile. “You do know that, don’t you? You’re worse than Dimplethwait.”

“You’re ignoring my question, and no I’m not. By the time the match begins tomorrow, they’ll all be gone. Also, they don’t cost 20 million Galleons each.”

“I’m not ignoring you. It’s nowhere near Christmas.”

“Six days, Draco. It’s in six days. Have you even started shopping?”

Draco laid his quill down on the desk. “I’ve finished. I only had one person to buy for.” 

Draco looked defiant, with his chin out and arms crossed on his chest, but Harry saw the moment of sadness before he’d steeled himself. Harry watched, waited to see what else Draco would say, because he didn’t know whether to ignore it or ask about it. 

Draco tried to stare Harry down. 

“Really? Just one. That’s kind of—yeah, wow. Who’d be _your_ friend?” Harry asked, biting back a smile. 

“Someone completely pitiful who needs better judgement.” 

“I know you are but what am I?” Harry sing-songed until Draco wound a rainbow scarf over Harry’s mouth and Harry tried to kiss him through the scarf.

“Seriously, though. Spend Christmas with me,” Harry said against Draco’s lips. 

Draco didn't answer, but Harry held out hope.

~*~

The Pride of Portree went the way of the Appleby Arrows and the Caerphilly Catapults, leaving the Cannons with a record of 3-0. The owner of The Pride made it clear in colorful language what he thought of the Cannons, the new owners, and their stadium. 

Harry laughed as he re-enacted the conversation for Draco. It had been the most inventive connection of words that he’d ever heard, and that included talking to Sirius.

“We’re 3-0 now?” Draco asked, his face bright. “We haven’t been 3-0 since the 19th century!”

“We?” Harry teased. “I had no idea you were that kind of Cannons fan.”

Draco flushed, and Harry suspected he’d hit too close to the truth. With its garish colors and its spectacular losing streak, the Cannons would never have appealed to Draco in the past. 

“It’s part of my investment—” Draco stammered, throwing the end of his Pride scarf over his shoulder. 

Harry laughed as he watched Draco and wondered if he knew how Harry felt. That his heart slammed into his ribs and then dropped out of his chest completely, leaving Harry breathless and lightheaded. Or how his body betrayed him when they were together, leaving Harry wondering how blood could rush to his face and his dick at the same time. And why he, a generally intelligent adult, spoke like a teenager if he could speak at all when he first saw Draco.

“Oof. That’s weak. You’re going to have to try harder, Malfoy. You’re a fan. Just admit it.”

Someone clearing his voice at their open door ended any intentions Harry might have had. “Coach. What’s up?” 

“We know you have to uh—do refunds, yeah? But, the team said they’d be happy to—er uh—have a skills y’know clinic on the pitch. Maybe people wouldn’t want refunds?”

“That’s brilliant!” Draco and Harry said in unison. Draco left to make the announcement about refunds and the special event.

Coach looked over his shoulder to make sure Draco was gone. “Y’know. We weren’t sure when you two bought the Cannons, because no matter how bad it is, yeah? It can always get worse.”

Harry nodded, not sure where this was going. 

“But you’ve been alright. Been fair to us with increases in pay, and top notch renovations to the players area. And new equipment. We want to be fair, to help out; keep you mates here. Even if he is a Malfoy.”

Coach extended his hand, and Harry shook it. 

“If we work together, I think we can be pretty great.” Then Harry stopped shaking Coach’s hand but held it in place as he stared into Coach’s eyes. “I want to be fair, too. If you ever say anything like that again about Mr. Malfoy, your contract will be immediately terminated, and I will make damn sure you don’t coach again.”

Harry’s voice had been steady and polite, kind but with steel underneath his words. Coach nodded. “Yeah, I—uh—understand. Of course, yeah.”

Harry shook his hand again and when Coach left, Harry fell into the closest chair, his heart rapid-fire running. He’d never spoken to someone that forcefully, usually stumbled over the words and hoped the person could glean his meaning from in between his stammers. 

But no one said shit like that about Draco. 

~*~

After the Pride presentation, they opened the line for refunds was short; the lines at the different skills stations on the field were long but happy. Kids tried on goalie gear, threw the Quaffle, gently strummed the Snitch’s wings. They took photos with their favorite players and bought merch and food and tickets for the next week’s match against Puddlemere.

A newly-assigned reporter from _The Wizard Sporting News_ spoke with adults and children about the event, asked the players their opinions on the new ownership and all of the gimmicks to increase attendance. She spoke with Harry and Draco in their office and used a proper quill rather than a _Quick Quotes Quill_ that Harry knew from experience would write what it wanted.

This was the first time _The Wizard Sporting News_ had ever assigned a reporter to cover the Cannons. 

They might be a spectacle now, a gimmick, a scheme. But Harry knew that, with the trades they had in the pipeline, the Cannons would win matches through talent and hard work, and not just by default.


	19. Boom Go the Cannons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An article that appeared in _The Wizard Sporting News_ following the Cannons' December 21 game against the Holyhead Harpies. This game's promotion was a Teddy Bear Toss. Unsure what that is? Get ready to grin as you watch [Teddy Bear Toss video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=puv1NSgKDKQ)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more chapter. xoxo

. **BOOM GO THE CANNONS**

Special to the Wizard Sporting News  
Friday, December 21, 2018

Go to a Cannons match these days, and you don’t know what you’ll see next. 

An indoor stadium that expands when a player gets too close? Check. 

Give aways, including t-shirts and wibble-wobblehead statues? Got it.

The Cannons with a winning record for the first time in recorded history? Unbelievable. 

Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, new owners of the Chudley Cannons, have turned the Quidditch world around. “Quidditch is brilliant, and we want to make it even more fun,” Potter said. 

Tonight‘s match was no exception. When Ginny Weasley scored the first goal of the match for the Cannons (only her fifth of the season), fans tossed plush stuffed animals off all shapes and sizes onto the pitch. Some of the plushies thrown were larger than a toddler, while some would fit easily in a toddler’s tiny hand. 

“It’s our first Teddy Bear Toss,” Potter said, standing in front of a small mountain of the toys. “This weekend the team is going to meet and take them to the kids’ ward at St. Mungo’s. It’s a small thing we can do to make a tough day in hospital a little brighter.”

“If anyone knows about being in hospital, it’s Potter,” Draco Malfoy added as he began sorting the pile. 

Potter protested, but in the end acknowledged it was true. “I spent more time in the infirmary at Hogwarts,” he said. “They should probably name it after me.”

The rapport between the co-owners was easy and light; immediately following their purchase of the club, rumors swirled of their legendary and loud disagreements about everything from players’ salaries and stadium renovations to wall paint and fan giveaways.

Over the past three weeks, the stories have died off. Players’ contracts have been extended with generous raises, and many people in the stands at tonight’s match wore bright orange Hogwarts Night shirts or sported rainbow scarves from Pride Night. 

The players showed more energy and intensity in their 200-130 win over the Holyhead Harpies than they had all season. Although they scored only five goals to the Harpies’ 13, Rodgers caught the Snitch in a daring dive, edging out the Harpies’ seeker by a fingertip. 

Tonight’s win over the Holyhead Harpies marked the first time the Cannons had beaten them in two centuries. That makes the Cannons 4-0 under new ownership, even if the first three were forfeits.

“I’m unable to comment on the suit we brought against the Cannons,” said Nick Cohen, owner of the Caerphily Catapults. “Except to say that the International Quidditch Association ruled in favor of the Cannons and their ridiculous, illegal, mockery of the game.”

In addition to the Catapults, the Appleby Arrows and the Pride of Portree also forfeited their matches in protest—specifically against the domed stadium that’s charmed to expand as players fly close to the walls. 

Neither Malfoy nor Potter would comment on the suit. A call to the team’s solicitor, former Quidditch star Sixten Lundberg, received no response.

If opposing teams don’t care for the change, fans love it. “It’s December 21st, and I’m not all bundled up like a snowman,” one young woman said, dressed in a bright orange Cannons jersey with Weasley emblazoned across the back. Those around her agreed.

While it wasn’t a huge crowd by typical Quidditch team standards, it was the largest the Cannons had seen in years. If attendance is any indicator, the new owners are succeeding in their quest to make Quidditch fun again. Season ticket sales have “tripled in the past month”, and single match tickets “have skyrocketed,” according to Malfoy. When asked for specifics, Malfoy declined to answer. “Let’s say, anyone who’s been to a Cannons match in the past 20 years already knows. We’re looking to the future. We want to keep growing the fan base back to its heyday.”

Potter snickered. “Who says heyday?” 

It seemed good-natured, as did Malfoy’s response. He aimed a plush kneazle directly at Potter’s face and hit the bullseye. Potter laughed as he caught the plush on the rebound off his face. 

Did the players mind the disruption tonight?

“No, but I think they were ticked off they couldn’t help collect the stuffed animals,” Malfoy added. The officials stopped the match after the Cannons’ first score. All players remained in place while staff members dashed on and off the pitch, their arms filled with stuffed animals.

As for other teams’ opinions? 

“We have a lot of new ideas,” Potter said with a wide grin. “We don’t care what they think. Pretty soon, they’ll be copying our business model.”

This time, Malfoy snickered at Potter. “Business model. Do you know even what that means?” 

Potter flipped Malfoy off. “I didn’t realize you didn’t. I’ll explain it to you later.”

The teasing continued through the interview, chirpy barbs without any heat behind them. The two, still in their twenties, bring energy along with those new ideas to a club that desperately needed change. They’re hoping that their excitement will translate into team success.

“We’re totally committed to being part of the Chudley community,” Potter added. “On Monday—Christmas Eve—we’re opening the stadium to the community. The Cannons organization is hosting dinner for those who are homeless or may have no one to share the holiday with. Our players and their significant others will be serving food and thanking people for their kind welcome. The stadium facilities will be decorated for Christmas and will also be open through Christmas night for showers and or somewhere warm to sleep.” 

Malfoy turned to Potter, surprise written on his face. “That’s—incredible,” he said quietly. “It’s brilliant. When did you—”

“Just now,” Potter said, and it seemed like he’d expected Malfoy to be angry. “Is that ok?”

“We’ll make it happen. You haven’t been wrong yet,” Malfoy said. 

And they haven’t. The fan promotions, the stadium renovations, the players’ contracts. They’re all adding up to a brilliant season for the Chudley Cannons.


	20. Together Or Not At All

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> photo prompt 
> 
> The community dinner is a success and other tid bits. 
> 
> also, this chapter, in which I did THE. THING. (i used the title in the chapter. I love when writers do that)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you a billion times for hanging with this fic. I finished it on the 24th. Just y'know. March 24. 
> 
> I'm going to take a little time to finish editing a novel based on [this](<img%20src=) for a competition. This is THE. HUGEST. step I've taken since posting my first fic in October of 2013.

“You had a brilliant idea,” Draco said as he collapsed into a folding chair at the one table remaining on the pitch. 

Harry lifted his head. “Buying the Cannons? Being with you? What?” He yawned loudly and then dropped his head back onto his folded arms on the table. 

“All of that, yeah. But I meant today.” Draco waggled the turkey drumstick he’d grabbed from the platter of leftovers. He brought it to his mouth but laid it on a plate instead. “It was definitely a good.”

Harry sat up and stifled another yawn. “I’m really proud of the team and their families. To give up their Christmas traditions to start this one—” 

“They did it because you were here. You led by example.”

Harry moved the turkey platter and the bowl of mixed nuts to lay his hand, palm up, in front of Draco. “You did, too.” 

Draco hesitated, but slid his hand on top of Harry’s. “I didn’t—”

“You _did,”_ Harry corrected quietly. “I had the daft ideas, but you made them happen. You publicized to get people here. You gave the team new equipment. New contracts. You’re the one who told them that no one was safe. Play or get traded.”

Draco knew that, right? Because as Harry watched him, he wasn’t sure Draco did. He looked shocked, eyes wide and mouth open. 

“My schemes don’t mean anything if the seats are empty and the team is rubbish.”

“Harry Potter.” Draco said, his voice silky. He leaned closer, and Harry knew this was going to end with someone on his knees, because that tone meant only one thing the past few weeks.  
Draco whispered, “You just admitted they’re schemes.”

Harry’s laughter echoed in the empty stadium, and Draco’s grin was worth everything. 

Sixteen years he’d known Draco Malfoy. Sixteen years and 25 days. But Harry felt like he’d found love overnight, unexpectedly, in between long rows and late nights and another mad scheme. For the first time, maybe ever, he could see forever, and it included Draco.

“You two certainly have energy,” Molly Weasley said, rearranging the table to make space for the bowl of fruit she held. “This is the last of it from the concourse tables. Everyone ate their fill and left happy.”

She rubbed Harry’s shoulders, and he leaned into Molly’s side. “You did a good thing. Arthur and I are proud of both of you.”

He knew he was blushing; even as a grown man, Harry craved their approval. “Thanks. It means—“ he blinked back the sting in his eyes. “It means a lot. Plus, that you gave up your Christmas Day to be here.”

“Not gave up. Postponed,” Molly tutted. “I expect you both at the Burrow when you finish here. I’ve left Fleur in charge, so the menu will probably be _French._ But at least there’ll be a nice roast.”

Harry laughed, and from the tone of Molly’s voice, he knew that she wouldn’t consider it a proper Christmas without mince pies and Yorkshire pudding.

“I’m sure she will do fine,” Arthur said, picking up the turkey leg that Draco had put down. “Maybe next year, it can be at their—”

“Bite your tongue, Arthur Weasley,” Molly gasped. “It will be at our home until I’m too feeble to lift a wand.”

They left still bickering, Arthur eating the turkey leg, and Molly fussing that he would ruin his dinner. “Both of you. No excuses!” she called over her shoulder, before apparating to the Burrow.

Draco was silent, but judging by the worry lines on his forehead, Harry suspected Draco was confused? upset? concerned? by Molly’s invitation. Harry stood up, and as he transfigured bowls into ziplock plastic bags, he casually mentioned, “You don’t _have_ to go.”

He watched Draco out of the corner of his eye; instead of making him less worried, Harry’s comment seemed to have deepened the lines.

“Why would they invite me?” Draco asked. 

Harry was surprised by the question, the honest curiosity. he kept filling bags with turkey, overwhelmed by the volume of leftovers. Next year, we’re sending people out with food. “Why wouldn’t they? You’re my—friend.”

The word didn’t begin to cover all the things Draco was to Harry. Friend, yes. But his business partner, sounding board, cheerleader, confidant. Lover. Harry hoped with his heart that he was all the same to Draco.

“They like you,” Harry added. “If they didn’t, they wouldn’t have come back after they helped with the renovation.”

Draco nodded. Harry didn’t think the conversation was done, just done for now. They’d absolutely have it again in some form when they got to the Burrow and were inundated with Weasleys. And judging from the shimmer on Ginny’s finger today, she and Blaise would have an announcement today. 

Draco vanished each bowl as Harry emptied it, and once the table was clear, he vanished that, also. “Thank Merlin we don’t play again until Friday. I’m exhausted.”

“But a good exhausted?” Harry asked, crowding Draco and kissing the tip of his nose. 

“A really good exhausted. Also, Potter,” Draco added, “Your meat in pushing against me, and it’s wrong.” He raised an eyebrow and looked down.

The bags of turkey were pressed between their bodies, and Harry pulled his hands away and held the bags out to each side. “That’s later, baby,” he leered with as lewd a wink as he could manage.

“You repulse me.” 

“That’s not what you said last night,” Harry laughed. “But I can try harder tonight.”

Draco stepped back and rolled his eyes so hard that Harry was worried he might hurt himself. When Draco spoke again, he was serious, thoughtful. “You know. I worked for Dimplethwait for years. Hated him and his sweaty, disgusting body and the stench of his stupid flowers. But I’m so damn grateful to him right now.”

Harry kissed Draco, keeping the bags to his sides. It was sweet, loving with a hint of more underneath. 

“What was that for?” Draco asked, breathless and stepping back in for another.

How could he explain that Draco had made him step outside of his comfort, had been the catalyst for the changes that Beatrice had said he needed to take on.

_Fake it til you make it,_ she always said. _Half the battle is just showing up._

He didn’t have to fake it. Life had found him, grabbed him by the wrist and yelled _we’re fucking doing this, mate._ Harry grinned like he was made of happiness. “We better go. No one keeps Molly Weasley waiting. At least, not more than once.”

Draco cocked his head like he wanted to ask, but Harry grabbed his arm and side-alonged to the Burrow, shoving one of the bags of food into Draco’s hand. 

Together. That’s how they’d show up. 

To work. To press conferences. To their life together. 

Because half the battle was showing up, right? And if they could live through this, they could do anything.

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the Fall Out Boy song [Champion.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJJpRl2cTJc) They sing, "If I can live through this, I can do anything."
> 
> So, y'know, same.


End file.
